


You were meant to be mine/I am all that you need

by Neyiea



Series: Burn everything you love/Then burn the ashes [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bruce had a plan and it backfired, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Coercion, Dark-ish Bruce towards the very end, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, vulnerable Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-01-22 19:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: On the night of June 24th Bruce, forced out of the precinct to get some rest before his search for Alfred drives him to a breaking point, finds himself unable to settle.He goes on a walk which ends with him standing in the place where Jeremiah last drew breath.He wonders what made Jeremiah's tunnel so important.(He finds out.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You were meant to be mine  
> I am all that you need  
> You carved open my heart  
> Can't just leave me to bleed
> 
> Meant to Be Yours from Heathers: The Musical

Alfred’s gone. He’s been missing for days and no matter how hard Bruce searches he can’t find a single trace of him. He can’t even figure out at what point he’d disappeared after leaving the apartment. 

Is it his destiny to lose the people he cares about?

His parents. Other children who were his almost-friends. People who he connected with, only for them to have an ulterior motive for getting close. Even Selina has been falling further from reach ever since she’d enacted her vengeance.

Now Alfred is gone, and Bruce doesn’t know if he can hang on much longer.

It makes him think of Ra’s al Ghul’s promise of killing a wife and children who didn’t exist yet. Who probably will never exist, now. Alfred is the last of his family, and it’s probably better that way.

But he’s gone. 

A wave of loneliness crushes him, even though he’s surrounded by the officers within the precinct. He has to work harder, look harder. He’s only a few dead-ends away from tearing through the streets like he had months ago when he was searching for Jeremiah. No one could recall seeing Alfred, or seeing someone take him, but maybe if Bruce started attempting to coax answers with his fists instead of pleas, someone would—

A hand clasps his shoulder and Bruce goes tense, turning his head to see Lucius regarding him with open concern. 

“Bruce, it’s getting late and you’ve been working on this since before the sun rose.” The hand tightens before falling away. “When we find Alfred he’s not going to be happy that you’ve worked yourself to a breaking point. Get some rest, I’ll continue where you left off, and you can start fresh in the morning.”

He doesn’t want to, not really, but Detective Bullock is also sending worried looks his way and he’s relatively sure that neither man will leave him be if he does try to keep working.

He’ll take a few hours away from the precinct. Whether or not he rests is not a concern to him right now.

“Thank you, Mister Fox. I’ll come back in the morning,” he says without specifying the actual time. If he doesn’t promise to come in at seven, then surely no one will be too shocked to see him back at two.

The cool breeze outside does little to ease his apprehension, nor does the apparent tranquility of the night. He can’t go to the apartment they’d been calling home, not without Alfred. He’s not even sure where Selina has run off to, or if she’d be in the mood to spend time in his uneasy company.

He starts walking and just—doesn’t stop. He lets his feet lead the way without thinking too hard about his destination. It’s dangerous, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He just keeps going and doesn’t come to a rest until he’s standing at the mouth of the tunnel where Jeremiah had drawn his last breath.

Another person that Bruce has lost. In more ways than one.

He clenches his jaw and tries to keep himself from falling apart as he stands where Jeremiah’s limp body had hit the floor. There’s a deep stain on the dirty ground, and Bruce feels dizzy with the knowledge that it’s Jeremiah’s blood.

He looks up at the tunnel to keep his eyes off of the macabre discoloration. 

Jeremiah’s final project; his last move in whatever game he thought he was playing. There are lights leading into it, the yellow glow doing nothing to disperse the eerie quality of the subterranean passageway. Bruce wonders if anyone has walked to the end of it to try and figure out where it leads, but he dismisses the idea quickly.

They didn’t have the spare man-power to spend time on that. Whatever Jeremiah’s plan had been, it had ended the moment Selina had caught him off guard.

He should leave. Lingering here can only cause him more grief, but…

He looks at the tunnel again and finds himself speculating on whether this was what was so important that Jeremiah didn’t show his face for months. He can’t bear to go to the apartment without Alfred, he knows he wouldn’t be able to rest even if he tried, and no one will let him stay overnight at the precinct to keep working. He may as well do something useful with his sleepless night.

He starts walking forward. He doesn’t stop. Fifteen minutes pass and he has no way of telling how close he is to the end. The way forward appears the same as the way backward; an endless path lit only by the cord of lights affixed to the roof.

He wonders why the power to the lights hasn’t been turned off yet.

He wonders where the power is coming from.

If he comes across the end of the tunnel and sees the blue glow of a compact electrical engine, Jeremiah’s work doing what it was truly meant to do, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to hold it together.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been traversing the tunnel when he finally catches sight of something up ahead. A wall that’s been broken through. He slows, caution finally rearing its head inside of him, and approaches with a sinking feeling.

He knows this place.

He steps out of the tunnel and into the secret passageway beyond the fireplace in his father’s study.

He’s home.

A hysterical sound—a sob or a laugh, he can’t be sure—slips from between his lips before he can think to slap a hand over his mouth to muffle it.

‘Why do you think he’s so obsessed with you,’ Selina had asked him in this room what feels like an eternity ago. Bruce had had an inkling then, and he’d told her as such. But this? The man-power and the number of hours that must have gone into digging that godforsaken tunnel… He’s not sure that he can fully comprehend the level of fixation behind it.

Jeremiah had been missing for months. Bruce hadn’t found a trace of him for months. 

But it must have taken months for a team to dig this tunnel by hand. 

Even while separated, Jeremiah had evidentially been thinking about him the entire time.

‘Gotham falls, we rise. Together.’

Bruce shudders, folding his arms over himself. Even in the stillness of the house he feels exposed, as if Jeremiah’s ghost is bound to turn up to try and lure Bruce into the afterlife. Even in this familiar place, he can’t find comfort.

Because if they’d broken through, who knew how many of Jeremiah’s followers might have stepped through this place, desecrating the very ground they tread upon. Violating the memories that Bruce had of his home with their wickedness and madness.

He slips into the hallway and keeps to the shadows, heading further into the heart of the house.

Up ahead is a door to a parlor. An extravagant, dated room that his parents had hardly ever utilized. Nothing of importance is in there. Just antique furniture and old portraits of ancestors Bruce couldn’t name, with a few more recent framed photos that he hasn’t had the heart to look at for a long time.

But the light is on. Bruce can see it gleaming from beyond the mostly-shut door.

He pauses in the hallway and strains his ears for any sounds that would indicate that people are inside. Eventually he can make out the murmur of a conversation. He takes a few steps closer, careful to skip over the floorboards that he knows will creak under his weight, and he listens again.

He knows those voices.

His breath hitches.

Two people lost to him, found once more.

But Jeremiah—how many times had he been stabbed? There was no way he could have survived—

No one stays dead in Gotham, Bruce thinks, and he has to bite back another hysterical noise, not anymore, anyway.

Or maybe he’s hearing things. Maybe he’s gone mad. Maybe Scarecrow is lingering nearby, and Bruce has been exposed to some of his particular brand of chemical warfare. Maybe if he opens that door he’s about to hallucinate Alfred being ripped to shreds by the man who was once Bruce’s friend.

He steps closer to the partially open door, straining his ears for a sign of anything amiss. 

Alfred’s tone is even, unworried.

Bruce realizes with a growing dread that, if he is real, he’s probably hypnotized. There was no other explanation for him to be speaking with Jeremiah so calmly.

Bruce takes another step towards the door and peers in through the small opening.

Jeremiah lounges on a loveseat with a sherry glass in his hand. Everything about him, from his posture to his loose grip on the glass, screams relaxation. Everything except his eyes, which are fixed on Alfred with an almost terrifying level of concentration. 

Bruce listens closer, expecting to hear Alfred spilling secrets about the inner workings of the green zone, the precinct, the leftover police force. Something like dread seeps into him when he realizes that the words Jeremiah is listening so intently to are all about him.

He’s having Alfred tell him about Bruce’s childhood.

Personal stories pass through Alfred’s lips in an endlessly fond tone, as if Jeremiah is an old friend who’s already heard them a hundred times before. There’s a photo album on the loveseat next to him, the red one that his mother had been putting together for as long as Bruce could remember. It’s a visual guide to some of Bruce’s most important moments of his childhood.

He has to look away, because the sight of Jeremiah so carelessly familiarizing himself with Bruce’s happiest memories is too much to withstand.

Even now, months after Selina had asked that damning question, Jeremiah’s obsession with him was still completely intact. 

Bruce’s fists clench and he backs away from the door, as if Jeremiah might be able to sense him lingering.

If he was so preoccupied with Bruce, so consumed by the need to know him better, then why had he hidden himself away for so long? Bruce isn’t so egocentric to assume that it was because Jeremiah was afraid of what might happen should Bruce come within hitting distance of him. There was something else going on.

“That’s enough for tonight, Alfred,” Jeremiah says during a lull, the strange cadence of his voice eerie and soft. He sounds tired, and maybe a little tipsy. “We can put this conversation on hold until the morning.”

“Of course, Mister Valeska. Have a good night.”

Bruce slips further away from the door, easily sinking into well-known shadows. He stays quiet as Jeremiah exits the room and silently follows behind him as he begins making his way through the house.

Jeremiah travels up the stairs with a purpose, and Bruce holds off on following him a little longer than he’d like just in case he ends up turning back for something. Once Jeremiah is clear from the staircase he swiftly follows, skipping over squeaky steps. It’s not long until he’s carefully looking down the hallway at—

That’s… That’s his room that Jeremiah is lingering outside of with one hand braced upon the door, almost as if he is imagining the ghost of Bruce’s childhood is inside. Like he’s expecting the young boy from Alfred’s stories to be fast asleep in his bed. Jeremiah sighs and mutters something under his breath viciously before he seems to answer himself in a milder tone and straightens, his hand falling away.

Then he lets himself into a guest bedroom directly across the hall.

Bruce retreats back down the stairs, sticking to the shadows and trying to figure out what he should do with all of this new information.

Jeremiah is alive, and likely still has plans to try and change who Bruce is as a person. He’s had a few drinks, and he’ll be settled in a bed soon enough, not expecting anyone to sneak in on him. But Bruce can’t run in there without a plan. He’s not sure if Alfred’s hypnosis will force him to protect Jeremiah should the other man be in harm’s way, and he’d like to avoid fighting Alfred if he can. He’ll wait until everyone is asleep, and once he’s certain that he can slip inside and catch Jeremiah off guard…

He hears a shuffling from up ahead; Alfred bidding goodnight to someone before exiting the kitchen.

Maybe there are a few of Jeremiah’s devout followers in there. Maybe Ecco. Maybe other innocent people who’d been hypnotized to do Jeremiah’s bidding. Bruce finds himself creeping closer, curious as to what he might find.

Alfred exits the kitchen, and even though he’s not alright in the slightest Bruce is still relieved to see that he doesn’t seem to have come under any physical harm. He follows him for a few paces, wishing he could just knock him out and run back to the green zone, but he’s not strong enough to carry Alfred’s weight through the entirety of that tunnel, and the sound of a scuffle nearby will no doubt alert whoever’s in the kitchen to his presence.

And once they know, it’ll only be a matter of time before Jeremiah knows.

Bruce allows himself one last look at Alfred’s retreating back before he turns towards the kitchen to see who else is roaming around his home under Jeremiah’s orders.

What he finds is like a punch to his gut. Like a knife to his chest. It can’t be them. They’ve been dead and buried for too long for it to be a resurrection. But they look—He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing until his lungs begin to burn with the need for oxygen. He sucks in air through his teeth, too loud in the quiet of the house, and rage ignites inside of him.

He’s rushing towards the stairs without a second thought, his plans to be cautious and wait going up in smoke, because this? This was uncalled for and cruel. 

As if Jeremiah hasn’t done enough to Bruce already, now he’s—now he’s—

Bruce tears open the door to the guest bedroom, running inside and punching Jeremiah across the jaw before the other man even has a chance to fully turn to see him. Jeremiah stumbles back, falling onto the bed, and Bruce follows the movement, too angry to care that he’s sitting astride Jeremiah’s chest.

His hands clasp around Jeremiah’s throat.

“I saw them,” he whispers hoarsely, “in the kitchen, I saw them both. Jeremiah, what were you planning?”

Jeremiah laughs. It’s higher in pitch than his brother’s laughter, and it causes a chill to settle deep in Bruce’s bones.

“It was a present; a present just for you, Bruce. It was going to be such a marvelous surprise!” His eyebrows furrow, and something sorrowful briefly crosses over his face. “But now I’m afraid it’s ruined. You only had a few more days to wait. So impatient, Bruce,” he chides, “I could have given you the chance to—”

Bruce’s hands tighten, just shy of completely cutting off Jeremiah’s inhalations, because even though the days have been blurring together something instinctive in the very heart of him will remember the day of his parents’ murder, even if he doesn’t pay much attention to calendars anymore. 

Jeremiah’s breath hitches, his chest rising and falling quick and shallow, but his hands only rest placidly over Bruce’s and there’s no actual attempt to free his throat from the grip. Bruce may not know the specifics, but he has a vague idea of what Jeremiah’s end-game might have been. Hurting Alfred had not been enough. Hurting Selina had not been enough. Hurting Bruce’s already-dead parents? 

What could be madder than that?

Bruce has re-lived that night in the alley so many times. First unable to run from his own nightmares. Then forced to by the Shaman when he’d been taken from home. Sometimes he wishes that he could forget, but he can’t. He remembers the sights, the sounds, the fear, the heartbreak. The memories are so vivid that he chokes on them. Having to experience it all again, that would be…

“Why?” His voice cracks, and he hates that he’s showing any sign of weakness in front of the person who is guaranteed to exploit it. Jeremiah would dig his fingers into any wound he could, opening it up again just to claim that the pain would bring them closer together. “Why would you do this?” His hands loosen enough for Jeremiah to speak. 

He deserves answers.

Jeremiah’s smile has a dangerous edge, as if Bruce has been asking stupid questions but he’s willing to play along and answer them, for now. His fingers tap rhythmically along the backs of Bruce’s hands, like he can’t bring himself to stay completely still.

“Well, you didn’t give me much choice, did you?” There’s a vicious glint in his eye. “I offered for you to be my best friend! But you spurned me, Bruce. So I figured,” he laughs again, roughly this time, “that I’d have to connect us through other ways.”

Bruce is tired. So, so tired. And not just because he’s barely slept since he’d realized Alfred had gone missing. This entire situation, life in Gotham in general, is exhausting him to his core. Words he would rather keep in spill from his lips because there’s no one he can talk to about Jeremiah. No one who could ever understand what Bruce lost when Jeremiah showed Gotham what he’d been turned into. No one, except for maybe Jeremiah himself. 

“Jeremiah, you left me.”

Jeremiah abruptly goes still underneath him. “What?”

He shouldn’t say any more. He should knock Jeremiah out and drag him to justice. He should make him pay for the monstrous sins he’s committed. But there’s something wicked inside of him that wants Jeremiah to hurt. That wants Jeremiah to realize that the entire blame for their broken friendship rests on his own shoulders. 

Jeremiah is still obsessed with him. Still wants something unattainable from him. Still wants them to be bonded even closer than they had been before. But that can’t happen. It will never happen. It was his choices, not Bruce’s, that destined them to be at eternal odds with each other. Jeremiah should know, should feel regret, should suffer for all that he’s done. But the only thing he likely feels any amount of remorse for is for driving Bruce away.

Bruce can use that to his advantage.

All he has to do is tell the truth. Even if it hurts him to.

Hurting Jeremiah is more important now.

“You left me, Jeremiah. The bridges blew and you left and I looked for you for months! I tore myself apart trying to find even a trace of you.” He remembers the violence that had overcome him, trying to use force to get people to talk. He’s not proud of his actions, but he’d felt that they were necessary at the time. Guilt had settled heavy in his stomach when it had occurred to him that Jeremiah would have enjoyed it, seeing him transform into something vicious. Perhaps he’d even been watching from afar, relishing in the sight of Bruce losing control of his temper. “And even when I was finally in your territory, in the heart of your church, handcuffed to a grate—” He has to keep himself from tightening his hands again. “—you didn’t come to me.”

Jeremiah cocks his head, eyes searching Bruce’s for a sign that Bruce only hopes he’s unable to discern. He’s probably figuring out too much just from his words, but they’ve started overflowing and he can’t stop them. They rise up from his aching chest and fall from his mouth because he can’t bear keeping everything in. He’s kept it in for months; no one to confide in because if he ever admitted to feeling anything but hatred for Jeremiah then any trust that the people he loved had towards him would vanish in an instant.

He misses his friend. He misses their conversations. He misses the cleverness and quick-wit that had drawn him in. He feels like he can’t reminisce about the happy memories he has of Jeremiah, before the world went to hell, because the only thing that would bring him was more pain and suffering. He’s had no one to talk to about late-night discussions about changing the world for the better, or shared smiles, or furtive glances that in retrospect make his heart ache. 

He could tell Jeremiah, though. Because who would even believe Jeremiah if he repeated what Bruce had told him?

“And then, the first time I see you after months of searching—I had to pull Selina off of you. I thought you were dead. You let everyone assume you’d been killed! You left me all over again. Jeremiah, what was our friendship to you if you always left me behind?” His hands are starting to shake, little tremors that Jeremiah no doubt feels. His words, however honest, were also meant to be a knife, and now it was time to cut deeply. “If anything, you are the one who spurned me.”

Jeremiah stares up at him, expression closing off but something dangerous brewing behind his eyes.

Bruce stares back, daring him to claim otherwise. 

“I must say; I find myself insulted that you are even insinuating that I could ever dismiss you.” His voice is calm, his tone monotonous. As if nothing is out of the ordinary. “You realize, don’t you, that everything I have done has been for you?”

Bruce can feel the beat of Jeremiah’s heart, with his fingers pressed against the artery in his neck just-so. It’s faster than it was before, probably because Jeremiah is wrongfully irritated at being told the truth. He might be playing at being level-headed in this moment, but he’s really anything but. Good. Bruce hopes it hurts, the knowledge that he’s the one at fault.

“And you trying to change who I am?” Bruce leans their faces together. They haven’t been this close since the night the bridges blew. Jeremiah’s eerie eyes track him, his pupils expanding in the shadow that Bruce casts. “Is that not absolute rejection in and of itself?”

“Is it wrong to want the ones you care for to become better versions of themselves?”

“No. It’s not.” Bruce feels weighed down, not only by his own feelings but by Jeremiah’s as well. It’s like gravity has increased. He finds himself sinking, posture drooping, until he’s all but inhaling Jeremiah’s exhalations. “But the way you’ve been going about it? Jeremiah, you’re smarter than that. I know you.” He swallows down the sorrow that wants to consume him. “Even now, I know you,” he finishes softly.

“Yes,” Jeremiah breathes, “just as I know you.”

He shouldn’t have dropped his guard.

He’s flipped onto his back, the impact of it forcing the air from his lungs in a surprised huff.

He doesn’t have the upper hand anymore.

Jeremiah pins both of his wrists against his chest with one hand. If Bruce hadn’t worked himself to exhaustion trying to look for signs of Alfred, if he hadn’t cared more about his search than eating, he probably would have been able to break Jeremiah’s hold easily. But he’d paid attention to other priorities more than his own body’s needs, and now he will pay for it.

Jeremiah’s gaze traces over Bruce’s face, and even in the light his pupils are dilated, his irises nothing but a thin ring. That’s the first clue Bruce has that their close encounter has affected Jeremiah in a way he hadn’t meant it to.

The second clue is entirely unsubtle, pressed hot and heavy against his thigh.

“Ah, forgive me,” Jeremiah says with a tone that implies that the last thing he actually wants is forgiveness. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Bruce.” He smiles sweetly. “And I was already so very fond of you.”

Bruce opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a jumble of sounds that make no sense and he snaps his jaw shut in mortification, cheeks going hot.

“It’s alright.” Jeremiah’s free hand cups the side of his face. “I know that you were fond of me as well.”

Bruce snarls, Jeremiah laughs.

“Darling,” he coos, as if Bruce wasn’t humiliated enough, “although it would be bad form to give you anything, now that you’ve ruined your surprise, I find myself thinking—”

“Stop.”

Jeremiah pouts, as if Bruce is taking away a favored toy. As if Bruce is a long-desired play-mate who is refusing to take part in a beloved game. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say. I’d find it rude, but I know how brash you can be without meaning to. Besides,” he cocks his head to the side, looking Bruce up and down like he’s every holiday come early, “you don’t have the upper hand here.” He reaches underneath a pillow, stretching his body along Bruce’s until they’re practically nose to nose. When he pulls away there’s a gun in his hand. “I wouldn’t shoot you, Bruce, but I would knock you out again. Wouldn’t you like to hear what I have to say instead of waking up tied to a chair in your kitchen?”

“Free Alfred. Free those people. Then we’ll talk.”

Jeremiah hums in mock contemplation. 

“I have a different idea. You see Bruce, I had the loveliest surprise planned for you, all laid out so that we could be tied together as we are destined to be. I do regret that your gift has likely been rendered pointless, considering that you’re two days early. However, my dear, I have found our conversation to be incredibly enlightening. Perhaps we can come to an understanding.” Jeremiah looms over him, pupils still blown. “Tell me, why did you go back to my tunnel? Were you reminiscing about my passing? Mourning, perhaps?”

Bruce purses his lips. Jeremiah clucks his tongue.

“Now now, we were making such wonderful progress. You were so honest when your hands were wrapped around my throat, it would be a shame for you to start attempting to conceal facts from me now.” Jeremiah smiles at him, and his voice lowers to an intimate whisper. “You feel the connection between us, don’t you Bruce?”

Bruce lashes out, his entire body flexing and pressing in an effort to free himself. He breaks Jeremiah’s hold, but can’t seem to pin him down again. They wrestle and Jeremiah cackles when they fall off the edge of the bed.

“I know that you still care about me, Bruce,” he taunts, roughly fisting a hand in Bruce’s sweater to bring their faces closer. “You made it exquisitely obvious.” 

Bruce slams their foreheads together and Jeremiah lets go, briefly dazed.

“I don’t,” he says resolutely, fists clenching, arm pulling back for a blow. “I can’t.”

Jeremiah grins up at him, like this is a fun new game, like he’ll take any of Bruce’s attention—even violent—that he can get. 

Bruce’s world turns on its axis once again.

“Don’t and can’t.” One hand clutches at his cheek, the thumb digging into the corner of his mouth while the gun is a cool, deadly pressure against his skin. The other hand presses against his throat. “Those are not synonymous Bruce, not by a long shot. Tell me the truth.”

“I—” Bruce scrambles, trying to squirm free, but Jeremiah’s weight is easily keeping him down.

“I—” He can barely breathe, and Jeremiah watches him struggle with avarice in his eyes. If Bruce passes out now who knows what he’ll wake up to. 

The truth had gotten him nowhere. He shouldn’t have tried to use it as a weapon.

He should have just lied and told Jeremiah that he meant nothing to him.

Bruce closes his eyes to block out the way Jeremiah is looking at him and thinks about the way they were before. Shared smiles and quick glances. Long nights with no one but each other for company. The blue light shining in Jeremiah’s eyes when they tested the generator for the first and last time. His chest aches from the memories, and he knows himself well enough to realize why.

“I could have loved you,” he rasps. The hand on his throat lifts away and Bruce’s eyes open of their own volition.

Jeremiah’s eyes are wide and his smile is wider—a picture of ecstatic surprise—and no matter how much it hurts to look at him Bruce can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Oh, Bruce.” Jeremiah reverently brushes a thumb underneath his eye and Bruce belatedly realizes that he’s started crying. “Mere words cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for your honesty.”

He leans down; Bruce’s breath catches—he’s not ready, he doesn’t want—and rests their foreheads together.

Bruce forces his eyes shut and tries to pretend that he’s anywhere but here. He shouldn’t feel conflicted. He should be angry, outraged, he should be fighting harder to get away.

But he could have loved him. He almost loved him.

Bruce misses Jeremiah so much.

He hates how much it hurts, just thinking about the way things could have been.

“That was in the past, Jeremiah,” he manages to say. “I don’t—”

“Shhh.” Jeremiah’s breath gusts against Bruce’s mouth and he tenses even further. He feels dizzier now, with Jeremiah this close, than he had when Jeremiah’s hand was around his neck. “Don’t attempt to deceive me, Bruce. It’s too late for that. Open your eyes for me.”

Bruce hates himself for following Jeremiah’s instruction.

His face feels hot.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Despite being such a business-like phrase, it sends a jolt of something uncomfortable through Bruce. Though maybe that’s because Jeremiah is still so close, his exhalations brushing against Bruce’s lips like the gentlest of kisses. 

That, and Bruce has a distinct feeling that he knows where this proposition is headed.

If it weren’t for Alfred he’d be gone already.

At least, that’s what he resolves to tell himself.

“I’m listening,” he whispers, forcing himself to relax. Jeremiah already knows too much, it’s best not to give him any fresh ammunition. 

“Not even twenty minutes ago I was sure that the only way we’d be able to remain bonded was through hatred,” Jeremiah tells him with something akin to wonder in his voice. “I could live with being hated by you as long as you hated me above all others. As long as I was who you thought about when you closed your eyes.” He backs away to give Bruce a small amount of space and uses the gun to gently push a wayward curl out of Bruce’s eyes. Bruce shudders at the touch of metal. “As long as I was the nightmare that haunted both your dreams and your waking moments.”

And then Bruce had opened his mouth and given Jeremiah a whole new outlook.

“I’ll let Mister Pennyworth and those strikingly familiar figures go. I’ll even give them the means and instruct them on how to break out of their hypnotized states. But I do require something in return for my incredible generosity.”

“You’ll still have me. That’s enough isn’t it?”

That’s all that he wants, isn’t it?

“But will you promise to stay with me? I’m no fool, Bruce. I know you.” His tone is adoring, his smile is warm. It reminds Bruce of the way they were before, and it makes his eyes sting all over again. Jeremiah is probably doing it on purpose, evoking old memories for manipulation. “You’re resourceful and far more intelligent than you let on. You could find a way out of any deal if you tried hard enough. I don’t want you for just one single night, Bruce. I want you for as long as we draw breath.”

“Want me as what?” He’s half-afraid to hear the answer spoken out loud. 

“My best friend.” The sincerity in Jeremiah’s voice is damning and Bruce’s heart aches anew. “My equal.” Bruce could both laugh and cry that his idea for becoming equals starts like this, with the power so heavily shifted in his favour. “My partner.” His tone takes on a lascivious edge that he doesn’t bother to conceal.

Trapped with Jeremiah in some sort of in-good-faith contract, unable to leave lest the people he loves suffer even more at Jeremiah’s hands. 

Bruce thinks about Stockholm Syndrome; and the likelihood that Jeremiah will use this as an opportunity to sway Bruce into a mindset where he identifies with him.

Bruce thinks about Lima Syndrome; and the likelihood that Jeremiah’s pre-existing emotions will make him more susceptible to developing sympathy towards him. 

One way or another, Jeremiah will likely be so caught up in Bruce that he won’t have time to focus on others. Or at least, not specifically go after the people who Bruce cares about the most. Bruce isn’t so naïve as to think his presence will cause a total reformation. 

“I have a few stipulations.”

Jeremiah nods, not looking surprised. 

“I expected nothing less.”

“If you keep your word, then I will keep mine. We’ll have a deal, and I’ll stay with you. For however long you want.”

A giggle bubbles past Jeremiah’s red lips. It sounds like undiluted joy. He slowly gets onto his knees and moves into a standing position, looming over Bruce like a predator about to strike. He holds out a hand to help him up.

Bruce clenches his jaw and takes hold of the offering. Jeremiah doesn’t let go once Bruce is on his feet. He hadn’t really expected him to.

“You and I, Bruce, are going to be so great together.”

They could have been.

Maybe—just maybe—the possibility is still there, but it’s buried under too many sins to start counting. 

“Will you let me say goodbye?” His voice cracks. “Before you send Alfred away please—please let me say goodbye.”

“Of course, Bruce.” Jeremiah gives him what Bruce supposes is meant to be a reassuring smile. Instead he just continues to look like the cat that caught the canary. “I’m not needlessly cruel.”

Liar, Bruce wants to hiss, but he holds his tongue.

“Thank you, Jeremiah.” Is what he says instead, and Jeremiah looks at him like he’s the reason why there are stars in the sky, the reason why the world keeps turning, the reason for everything.

To Jeremiah, maybe Bruce really is the reason for everything. 

The thought settles like a heavy weight against his chest, and he finds himself feeling faint at Jeremiah’s continued intent, unblinking gaze. His exhaustion, both physical and emotional, is catching up with him.

Jeremiah pulls him closer, and Bruce doesn’t have the energy to even attempt resisting.

The press of Jeremiah’s lips to his forehead feels like damnation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, since y'all seemed to like that stand-alone part so much I figured I may as well make an attempt at writing more (thanks for your lovely comments by the way!). I've got an outline of where this is headed, hopefully I'll have figured out the final chapter count by the next time I post.
> 
> But first; bye bye Alfred (Bruce, my poor boy, I am so sorry).

He wishes that he could say what might be his final goodbye in private, but he’s not surprised that Jeremiah refuses to allow him that small courtesy. Instead Jeremiah clings to him like a second, more sinister shadow, one hand always either on his shoulder or his lower back. It’s like he can’t quite believe that Bruce is here with him. Like he has to continuously check to be sure that Bruce isn’t a hallucination born of a desperate, unhinged longing. 

His constant stare in and of itself is like a physical presence that makes all of Bruce’s hair stand on end. Combined with the ever-present, tactile sensation of his hand…

Danger. Danger. Danger. 

Every sense he has is going haywire, screaming at him to run while he still can.

But it’s far too late for that.

He does his best to not look at Jeremiah, not even from out of the corner of his eye. However, even without seeing him it is impossible to ignore him.

And now Bruce may never be able to ignore him again.

The thought makes him break out into a cold sweat.

The look-alikes had gone through the tunnel first and Bruce had closed his eyes and focused on his breathing to block the sound of their not-quite-right voices and the sight of their not-quite-right mannerisms. He’s glad that, at the very least, Jeremiah isn’t making him say goodbye to Alfred with those people-turned-puppets in the background. It’s bad enough that Jeremiah believes that he has a right to intrude on this moment, as if he thinks this small act of mercy washes away the multitude of sins that should mean a court-mandated distance of at least 500 meters between them at all times. 

Bruce hates him in this moment. He knows that he does.

But that is something that Jeremiah had wanted as well. To be the person who Bruce hated above all others.

No matter what he does now there’s no winning for him. Jeremiah had stacked the deck against him from the very start. 

But he can’t keep ruminating on Jeremiah. 

He has to say goodbye.

“Will he remember what I say to him?” He hates that he has to ask, but he needs to know.

“I am afraid not,” Jeremiah answers simply, and Bruce’s heart cracks a little more. “Though I was quite confident in my plan I did want a failsafe in place in case something went awry. Mister Pennyworth won’t remember anything from the past several days once the hypnosis breaks.”

Bruce will remember, though. 

If Bruce holds anything back now he’ll only hate himself more. Everything there is to say needs to be said.

He looks at Alfred, standing before him and smiling benignly as if he’s only going to be gone for a short amount of time. Bruce doesn’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to Alfred—not now, not ever—but he has no choice in the matter and each moment he wastes by not speaking up is a moment lost to him forever.

“No need to look so glum, Master B,” Alfred tells him, “Mister Valeska will look after you while I’m away.” He opens his arms and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to run into them, free from his new shadow for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

He wraps his own arms tightly around Alfred’s waist and bites down the instinctive reply to Alfred’s falsified positive mention of Jeremiah. He doesn’t have the time to waste on anger. Alfred holds him, and Bruce feels like that little boy whose world fell apart all over again; whose only stable point was the man who had raised him alongside his parents, and then in place of them. The man who was the only family that Bruce had left. 

“Alfred, I need you to know that you’re one of the most important people in my life,” he croaks, voice thick with emotion, “and you always will be.” He’s shaking. He feels like he’s coming undone at the seams. “You are my family; you have been since even before my parents died. I am who I am today because of you, and I—” his breath hitches on a sob. “I love you.”

Alfred’s arms tighten around him. Bruce clenches his eyes shut, his fingers digging into Alfred’s jacket, and he tries not to think of the way they’re being watched; what should be a private moment on display for someone who would never be able to understand the relationship that Bruce and Alfred have.

Alfred has been so much more than a butler to Bruce for years now.

“I know you never thought you’d have to act as a father. But you’ve been a great one. I love you,” he repeats in a cracking voice. 

“I love you too, Master B,” Alfred answers back nonchalantly, as if Bruce isn’t pouring his heart out. It hurts terribly, even if it’s not Alfred’s fault. “You’ve grown into such a fine young man.” Alfred’s hands move to rest on Bruce’s shoulders, and Bruce is forced to take a reluctant step back. “But you’ll always be my boy.”

Hot tears roll down Bruce’s cheeks, and he knows if he opens his mouth he won’t be able to hold back the sobs that are building up in his chest, already making his breaths uneven and difficult.

Alfred steps out of reach, and Jeremiah is quick to invade Bruce’s space once again.

“Goodbye Master B, Mister Valeska,” Alfred calls as he begins walking through the secret passageway. 

Goodbye, Bruce thinks instead of says. More tears spill over.

“Don’t worry Bruce,” Jeremiah whispers in his ear, entirely too close for comfort. “We have each other now.”

Bruce turns to him, angry and heartbroken beyond measure, and he lashes out, fists coming down to strike at Jeremiah’s chest and shoulders. He hits and hits, snarls mixed with sobs falling from his mouth to form a wretched sound that he can’t believe he’s capable of. Jeremiah takes each blow without faltering, as if Bruce’s hits are nothing. 

Bruce rages until the swell of anger recedes and all that is left is the excruciating sadness. Eventually Jeremiah takes gentle hold of his sore hands, eerie gaze fixed on Bruce’s face like he’s relishing the sight of Bruce in tears before him. Memorizing him. Savoring his despair. Telling himself that he is the reason Bruce has become overwhelmed with his emotions. 

And he is the reason. It’s all his fault.

“Please don’t hurt yourself Bruce. You may find it difficult to understand at the moment, but this is for the best.”

Bruce struggles to free his hands from Jeremiah’s grip, but he finds that he can’t. His shoulders shake with heaving breaths, and his vision is blurry with tears.

I don’t understand, he wants to scream, I’ll never understand. But the words won’t come out. Every time he opens his mouth to speak he finds he can only make wounded noises. 

Only one instance in his life has hurt as much as this.

Though Jeremiah hadn’t been able to enact his plan of forcing Bruce to watch his parents’ murder all over again, he’d no doubt be pleased to know that the pain Bruce feels in this moment is comparable to that of his darkest memory.

Jeremiah wanted him to suffer. Wanted to drive him mad with grief.

It feels like he’s succeeding. 

“I—” He won’t say that he hates him, he can’t give him that. “I wish we—” He shudders, still heaving on sobs. “I wish we’d never met.”

Jeremiah’s lips purse into a deep frown.

“You don’t mean that.”

He absolutely does. 

He opens his mouth to answer but Jeremiah shushes him and moves one hand to cup the back of Bruce’s skull, tipping his face forward onto his shoulder. It’s a mockery of the comfort of Alfred’s embrace, a pale imitation of the warmth he’s been shown by people who have truly cared for him over the years, but it’s also the only support available to him right now, and if Jeremiah is offering it it’s probably better for everyone if Bruce accepts it.

He leans his weight against Jeremiah and fights to catch his breath. Jeremiah cards the hand through his hair in a gesture that is perhaps meant to be soothing, but instead it just reminds Bruce of how little power he has, how trapped he is, that Jeremiah can just reach out for him whenever he wants.

Eventually his tears run dry and his breaths even out, but he doesn’t pull away from Jeremiah, too worried about what will happen after. As uncomfortable as it is to be so close to the man directly responsible for so many terrible things, at least right now Jeremiah seemed content with holding him close.

The kiss to his forehead earlier had been bad enough. It was the kind of soft, affectionate gesture he might have wanted from Jeremiah before the change. Bruce isn’t sure how he’ll react if Jeremiah tries anything further. What if he—

“You’ve had a rough night, Bruce. You’ve been running yourself ragged for the past few days, haven’t you?” It’s Jeremiah who pulls back, just far enough to look Bruce up and down in a knowing, assessing way. The concern that flits over his features nearly gives Bruce a headache. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To wear Bruce down until he was too fatigued to fight back? One would think he’d be pleased at his outstanding success. “I believe it is time for you to get some rest.”

Bruce clenches his hands in Jeremiah’s shirt, licking his dry lips before he tries to speak again.

“What will happen to them?”

His voice sounds wrecked to his own ears.

The hand in his hair comes to clutch the side of his face. Jeremiah’s thumb drags across Bruce’s slick lower lip.

“If you are still worried about your dear Mister Pennyworth, don’t be. He has been very useful to me over the past few days, and in more ways than anticipated.” Jeremiah smirks and chuckles. If Bruce had any energy leftover he’d punch him again. “And he is a rather integral piece to our deal. He’ll wake up where he’ll last remember being.”

Their deal. Right.

Bruce can’t bargain for every life in Gotham. Not even he is worth that much. But hopefully he’s enough to keep a handful of people from having to face Jeremiah’s destructive, jealous intent.

But…

“What about the others?”

“Oh, them?” Jeremiah shrugs, careless. “They’ll go back to Tetch. I cannot have people looking like your parents just wandering the city, Bruce, especially when they remember that they are not who they appear to be.”

“But you said—”

“That I would let them go and give them the means to break out of their hypnotized states. I kept my end of our deal. Whatever Tetch decides to do with them once he wakes them up is out of my hands.”

Bruce is more exhausted than he can ever remember being. He feels carved out, hollow, void of anything but despair. He can’t summon enough anger on those poor strangers’ behalf to lash out at Jeremiah again. He can’t cry more for their likely grim fate. He can only hold onto the knowledge that Jeremiah and Tetch are on good enough terms that they’ve been working together on something. 

Because even if having Bruce under his power was Jeremiah’s greatest aspiration, he always had something else going on.

Bruce’s grip on Jeremiah’s shirt goes slack, and his knees feel weak. Jeremiah regards him thoughtfully for a long moment before nodding, as if he’s answering a conversation that is taking place only in his own head. Bruce finds himself so drained that he can’t even make a noise of protest when Jeremiah sweeps him up into his arms, as if Bruce is a damsel in distress about to faint.

Although, with his vision growing dim at the edges, and his head feeling fuzzy as the toll of the past few days crashes over him in an overwhelming wave, he does betray himself by thinking that maybe Jeremiah wasn’t too far off.

And then there is nothing but darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter in which once Jeremiah starts talking he just. Does not. Stop. If he's this chatty every time I write him this fic may end up longer than anticipated, haha.

The sensation of waking up is like slipping from one nightmare into another.

His sleep had been blessedly dreamless, but the much-needed rest leaves him more clearheaded than he’s been in days and he can look back and find every fault in every action that he took which lead him to this point. He should have followed Lucius’s advice and gotten some rest, he shouldn’t have been wandering around Gotham with no destination in mind, he should absolutely not have taken it upon himself to try and find out what Jeremiah’s tunnel had been meant for. He’s buried under an avalanche of mistakes and the weight of them all is crushing. 

Waking up in his room, in his bed, feels wrong after months of sleeping elsewhere.

So much about this situation is wrong. 

How long will it be until Lucius begins to think that Bruce’s absence from the precinct is due to more than him catching up on lost sleep? How long before he thinks it’s due to more than Bruce going off to search for Alfred on his own?

How long until Alfred stumbles into the precinct, dazed and confused and just wanting to find Bruce to make sure that he’s okay?

Bruce buries his head in his hands and tries not to think about everything that he may never know the answer to. He has to focus on the matters at hand.

He looks down at himself under the covers and one of the many tense knots inside of him loosens when he sees that he’s still wearing all of his clothes.

Not that that means anything. Jeremiah could have done any number of things while Bruce was sleeping. He may have even laid beside Bruce in this bed, staring at him all night with an insatiable hunger. He may not be here now, but that only makes everything more suspicious.

Bruce is here. Bruce is the culmination of everything he wants. He hadn’t allowed Bruce to be any more than a few steps away from him at a time last night. Why isn’t he here to revel in his victory? Why isn’t he here to act on the feelings and urges that had been made blatantly obvious only hours ago?

It can only be because something else is in the works. Something beyond having Bruce re-live the day his parents were murdered.

But if there was a timeline planned, if Jeremiah had been set enough on having the first domino tip over on the twenty seventh and wanted to ensure that Bruce was not too distracted by other destruction to keep from falling into his covetous hands, then that means that Bruce still has a day or two before whatever else is meant to happen comes to pass.

It unsettles him but even without keeping their deal in the forefront of his mind being here with Jeremiah, where he can at least get some idea of what is going to happen, is where he can do the best for his city.

It’s where he can be the most useful.

Lay back and think of Gotham, his own voice chimes in his head. 

He smothers back another hysterical noise.

He will not let this situation break him.

He slips out of bed, intent on finding his captor. He starts with the guest bedroom across the hall which looks untouched since their scuffle the previous night and leaves Bruce with a sneaking, sinking suspicion that he may not have been too far off in thinking that Jeremiah had spent the night watching him like a greedy hawk. He takes a fortifying breath and continues down the hallway, slipping in and out of rooms that show no signs of life. They haven’t even been cleaned; the air inside smells musty.

Jeremiah had made Alfred make up his guest room, but he’d also had him sort out Bruce’s room as well.

He’d seen Jeremiah lingering outside of his bedroom last night. He wonders if Jeremiah had ever given into temptation and gone inside.

Most likely. It would be terribly naïve of Bruce to assume otherwise. 

As he opens the door to his parents’ room he finds himself hoping and praying to anyone who might be listening that Jeremiah hasn’t tainted this spot too; a place where Bruce had always felt safe.

He doesn’t find Jeremiah inside. 

What he finds instead is a bomb.

It doesn’t surprise him, the fact that Jeremiah obviously intended to destroy everything Bruce has held dear, but now it feels like he’s started to purposely rub salt into an open wound. 

Clearly, he’d done everything in his power to set a scene that would ensure Bruce would spend the rest of his life cursing his existence. Jeremiah wanted to be the one responsible for taking away everything Bruce ever cared about. 

Everything prior to Jeremiah’s introduction into his life. 

He closes the door to his parents’ room and fights down the instinct to rush through his home, fights down the anger that roils inside of him and demands retribution. That’s what got him into this mess in the first place; he needs to stay level-headed. 

But it’s hard. It’s so difficult because when he’d spoken to Jeremiah last night, trying to use his truths to cause suffering, he’d brought all of his own feelings back to the surface. Nothing he’d said had been an outright lie, not even his comment about Jeremiah trying to change him feeling like a rejection.

He wasn’t meant to be Bruce Wayne, heir of Ra’s al Ghul, Dark Knight of a broken Gotham.

He’s not sure what he’s meant to be, but he knows that it’s anything except for that. The fact that Jeremiah was unable to accept that was like a slap to the face. 

He misses the old Jeremiah so keenly right now. He’d felt like he could talk to him about anything. Jeremiah had always been willing to listen to him, had always—

He needs to stop. He needs to rein in his feelings and lock them away before they get him even deeper into trouble.

He needs to find Jeremiah and figure out what else is going on.

Bruce slips through the house, a physical ache manifesting in his chest as he takes in the familiar structure. So many memories are rooted in this place and if he knows anything about the current Jeremiah, other than the surety of his obsession with him, he knows that there’s never just one bomb. 

He feels himself break out into goosebumps even before he actually catches sight of Jeremiah watching him from the door to his father’s study.

Danger. Danger. Danger. 

Bruce slowly comes to a stop and keeps silent, unwilling to be the one who initiates a conversation. 

Jeremiah is more than willing to talk, anyways. 

“You didn’t try to leave.” Again, there is something like wonder in his tone.

It makes Bruce sick. It makes his heart ache. It makes him want to spit on Jerome’s grave for all the trouble he has caused even after his death.

As if Bruce would take that option when Alfred’s life was on the line. He hasn’t seen or heard anyone else in this place which means that Ecco and Jeremiah’s other followers are still out there somewhere, maybe accompanied by a throng of people who’ve been hypnotized by Tetch, possibly following Alfred with orders to kill in case Bruce missteps. The urge to snarl rises at the thought, but he fights it back. 

“I made you a promise.” He’s distantly proud of how calm he sounds. “I’m a man of my word.”

“Of course you are, Bruce,” Jeremiah lingers on Bruce’s name, as if even speaking it is a boon that he has been granted. He steps forward, and his presence is soon filling up all of the space in front of Bruce. He’s not that much taller than Bruce, though admittedly a little broader, but his clothes, and hair, and makeup make him seem bigger, somehow. Bolder. Like he’s not-quite human. Like underneath that chalky skin there’s something vastly more dangerous than any demon that has previously walked the earth. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Then why were you expecting me to try and escape?”

Jeremiah giggles, and he reaches a hand forward to brush his fingers through Bruce’s messy bed-head.

“Pessimism, my dear, is difficult to leave behind when one is so accustomed to being let down.” His fingers curl in Bruce’s hair and he tugs lightly, forcing Bruce to meet his eyes. “Even with all that you shared with me last night it is difficult to comprehend that I have almost everything I want.”

Almost everything.

“I promised that I’d stay with you. I didn’t promise that I would change to suit your whims.”

“Change is an inevitability, Bruce. Stagnation is the downfall of all civilizations. Everything must evolve as time passes on or it will be left to fester and rot, just as Gotham did,” Jeremiah recites with little inflection. Bruce hates that what he says sounds like it could be reasonable. Hates that they’d spoken at length about the need for change, for progress, as long nights hard at work transitioned into quieter mornings. “You are not the same person that you were when we first met, just as I am not the same. We have merely been growing at different rates.”

“That’s different and you know it.” He holds off on mentioning Jerome’s final parting-gift not only because he can’t be sure how Jeremiah will react to him bringing up his brother, but also because he can’t bear to hear Jeremiah claim that the concoction he’d been sprayed with had only caused ‘mild cosmetic effects’ again. 

“Are you certain about that?” Jeremiah leans close so that their noses are almost brushing. Bruce sees the way he glances down, staring at Bruce’s lips like they’re something he’s been craving for a millennium, but he appears to curb his desire to draw even closer. “This is who I have been for almost the entire time that you have known me. Underneath the concealer, glasses, and the shell of my old self, it was me as I was meant to be all along.”

“Then it was all a lie.”

It hurts to say it.

Maybe as much as it hurts to hear it.

The fingers in his hair tighten enough to sting. Bruce bears the pain and doesn’t allow himself to be weak enough to break eye contact.

“No, Bruce. The deception regarding the generators I will grant you, but everything else was genuine. Your feelings were not a lie.” Jeremiah’s lips stretch in a too-pleased grin. “Neither were my own. The person that you think of as my past self was merely my old skin before I had fully outgrown it. I was still the same underneath. It is shed now, and I am better as I am.”

His grip on Bruce’s hair loosens, and his gaze becomes searing in its intensity. 

“But I will be the first to admit that I am at my very best when we are together. Just as you are. Can’t you see that?” Jeremiah’s eyes demand an understanding that Bruce can’t—won’t—give him. “My original plans for Gotham, my utopian maze, fell through because I did not plan it with you in mind. But when I began to think of making the best Gotham for you, not just for myself…” Jeremiah sighs, his eyelashes fluttering. His touch and tone become reverent. “Oh Bruce, what an outstanding muse you have been to me. I have done so many awe-inspiring things, and I have done them all for you.”

All for him.

Bruce clenches his eyes shut and fights back memories of time spent in the bunker, where Jeremiah had more than once joked about Bruce being both his benefactor and his muse. A motivating force beyond measure, he’d once commented with a shy smile that had made Bruce’s heartbeat trip. Bruce had found it funny as well as rather sweet back then. It had made him feel like maybe he was at the center of something greater than he could even imagine. 

To be referred to as a muse now, to be told point-blank that he is the inspiration for the ruin that is his city, makes him feel like he’s been dunked in ice water.

“I never asked you to do any of those things for me.”

“Because you didn’t know you needed it.” Jeremiah’s voice takes on a knowing edge. “I can see the big picture, Bruce. I have seen it for months now, for months I have wanted to share it with you, and now I finally have the opportunity to do so. You are once again at my side, as you are meant to be.” His hand drifts down the back of Bruce’s neck, then circles around to gasp his chin. “You have made me so incandescently happy, Bruce.”

He presses his lips to Bruce’s forehead, and when he leans back he smiles at the smudge of lipstick he has left behind.

“You told me that you could have loved me. Trust me, Bruce, you’ll get there again,” he promises with fervor. “Now that the unfortunate misunderstandings about our mutually perceived rejections have been cleared up there is no longer a reason for us to deny what we can become when we have each other.”

Dangerous, that is what they can become when they have each other.

Their combined intelligence, resources, and skill-sets have caused so much harm even though, way back when, they both only had the best of intentions. Now, with Jeremiah changed and Bruce standing on the edge of the dark chasm within himself, they could only do even worse.

They’re both a chemical component, destructive enough in their own right, and if they were to be mixed together the result would be too volatile to be responsible for anything good.

“You may be unable to fully comprehend the scope of our combined influence, but that is merely because you have been kept away from my side for too long.” Jeremiah’s expression turns dark, and a shiver races up Bruce’s spine. “You have forgotten what we are capable of when we join forces. You have forgotten what I am to you.”

Bruce wants to refute it. Wants to deny him. But he needs to know what else is going on, how Tetch is involved, and Jeremiah will be more open if Bruce isn’t so obviously working against him. But he can’t just do a complete one-eighty. Even if he’s in Jeremiah’s power, at Jeremiah’s mercy, there’s no way Jeremiah actually expects this to go easily.

He did admit to pessimism, after all.

And, though he despises admitting it, Jeremiah knows him far too well.

Jeremiah had seen him at his best and his worst. Jeremiah had listened to his dreams and his nightmares. There are very few people still alive who can claim to have been as close to Bruce as Jeremiah once was. 

So Bruce swallows down a rebuttal and forces himself to break the gaze they’d been holding. A small show of weakness, just enough to make Jeremiah feel like his upper hand is that much greater. Like Bruce is considering what he’s saying and is not immediately finding fault.

“I should not have left you alone after you and Miss Kean killed Ra’s. I should have found a way to bring you with me as I escaped,” Jeremiah tells him in a voice that is filled with genuine regret. Why? Why was Bruce cursed to be the one thing he would ever feel regret about? He could live with a whole manner of terrible things if Jeremiah could, for one moment, regret his villainous actions. “It was not long after that when I began to plan what was meant to happen tomorrow, sure in the knowledge that at least then we would be tied together for eternity through hatred. I had given up hope on anything else.”

How can he bring up such a terrible thing so casually and still claim that he’s completely sane?

Bruce wishes that he had a definitive list of every person to blame for the success of Jerome’s parting-gift. He wants them to pay for their role in creating Jeremiah as he is, for destroying Jeremiah as he was.

He swallows back the surge of anger. 

“You were prepared to hate me, then?”

“Do not purposefully misunderstand me,” Jeremiah reprimands sharply and Bruce can’t help but flinch at the tone. A wave of something indescribable passes over Jeremiah’s face. Too many emotions conflicting with each other and leaving nothing but a chaotic mess in their wake. When he speaks again his voice is softer. “I was merely prepared for you to hate me. But that was yesterday, and a new day has dawned.” Both of his hands cup Bruce’s face and he looks at him like he still doesn’t quite believe that Bruce is here, in front of him. “So much has changed since then.”

“Yes,” Bruce finds himself agreeing against his better judgment. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants Alfred beside him. “It has.”

Jeremiah tugs him forward abruptly, his patience evidentially worn thin. 

The kiss is sloppy, desperate, something that’s been held back for so long that the execution suffers. It’s clumsy in the way a first kiss might supposed to be between two people who’d never felt so strongly about another person before. If it had been a kiss shared in Jeremiah’s bunker Bruce would have been somewhat charmed by the lack of finesse. Would have pulled away to softly tell Jeremiah that it was okay, he wasn’t planning on going anywhere, they could take it slow.

But nothing is as it should be, and Jeremiah’s fingers clutch at him too-tight. It’s possessive, claiming, suffocating. He laps his tongue against the seam of Bruce’s lips and Bruce jerks at the unexpected, wet feel of it. Jeremiah chuckles delightedly against his mouth and repeats the action, unhurried, as if to acclimatize Bruce to the sensation. Then he takes Bruce’s lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough that Bruce jerks again, a muted sound forced out of him. 

“You spoil me with such adorable reactions, Bruce,” Jeremiah hisses against Bruce’s sore lip. “I cannot wait to experience them all.”

He plants one last kiss on the corner of Bruce’s mouth and sighs happily as he pulls away, sated for the moment. 

Bruce had been too thrown off by the kiss to think about bringing his hands up in the guise of mapping out Jeremiah’s body, when what he’d really be searching for is a detonator. 

He’ll remember to do that next time.

He watches Jeremiah’s eyelashes flutter as he leans their foreheads together again, his hands coming to rest on Bruce’s shoulders, and he thinks that he won’t have long to wait until the next time Jeremiah decides he wants a taste.

“I want to make you happy, Bruce,” Jeremiah whispers, breath gusting against Bruce’s tingling lips. “But I also want you to be mine in all ways that matter.” His hands trail down Bruce’s arms, and soon he is twining their fingers together. “It is unfortunate that it seems to be fated that one must come before the other, but perhaps there is a way for them to occur in sync.”

“You can’t change me against my will.”

At least, Bruce hopes he can’t.

His skin pricks at the idea of Scarecrow getting involved again, or worse; Tetch, and he feels sick at the very idea of being sprayed with whatever Jeremiah had been polluted with. 

“No, I suppose I can’t,” Jeremiah admits. Bruce tries not to let any surprise show on his face. “You have to change of your own free will for it to be worthwhile. But I will endeavor to guide you to that point, Bruce.” He squeezes Bruce’s hands meaningfully at the promise. “I want what is best for you.”

“You keep saying that.”

And every time he says it, it chips away at something inside of Bruce.

“Because it is true. I have no reason to lie to you.” He breathes out another happy sigh and moves to bring his mouth next to Bruce’s ear. “How could I lie to my best friend?”

Bruce bites back a sharp, jaded laugh.

He’d lied well enough while working on the generators. Even with all of his talk about being his true self underneath a thin veneer, all he’d done was deceive.

But fuck, Bruce can’t erase what his feelings had been. 

Jeremiah was right about that, damn him. Those hadn’t been fake. They hadn’t been a lie, even if the ‘shell’ he’d developed them towards was. 

He wishes he could forget what he’d felt. It would be so much easier. Even now when Bruce looks at Jeremiah he can see the shadow of a man who he could have loved, once. And the fact that Jeremiah is going to keep using that to his advantage is terrifying.

For Alfred, for Jim, for Lucius, for Selina, for Gotham, he has to stay afloat while Jeremiah tries to drive him mad.

Mad with grief. Mad with hate. Mad with love. Mad with what could have been. 

Of every terrible situation Bruce has found himself in over the years, this will be the most difficult to survive unscathed. 

“Come into the study, I have things that I’ve been dying to show you.”

Jeremiah tugs on his hands, the manic joy sparking in his eyes is distantly reminiscent of happier memories that Bruce wishes he could leave behind, and Bruce follows him with a growing dread.

He’s not sure what to expect. Maybe maps of Gotham colour-coded to show which gangs controlled where, or revamped plans for Jeremiah’s utopian maze. Maybe the dead body of someone who, like Bruce, had wanted to find out what Jeremiah’s last play was meant to be.

Maybe the look-alikes, back again to play father and mother at Tetch’s behest.

Maybe more bombs. 

The possibilities are endless and sickening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always; thank you for the comments and I hope you enjoy!

Stepping into his father’s study and forcing himself to ignore the tunnel is difficult, even though he is fully cognizant of what hangs in the balance should he attempt to leave. The part of him the rages against the idea of being trapped here—the darkness in him that wanted to cause Jeremiah any pain that he could—screams at him to overpower Jeremiah and run; run until he’s far enough away that Jeremiah will never be able to overcome the distance he puts between them.

The part of Bruce that is resigned to his fate—that aches from memories and only wants to do the best that he can for the people and city that he loves—whispers that it doesn’t think such a distance exists. 

Bruce feels as if he’s being pulled in two different directions. The outcomes of following either leave him feeling short of breath.

He’s certain that Jeremiah is flaunting the way out on purpose, daring Bruce to try something that would give him an excuse to go back on his word.

At least, in this way, Bruce can disappoint him.

Jeremiah’s hand once again finds its way to his lower back and he guides him towards the desk, which is blanketed with papers written in an unfamiliar hand. He tries not to look at what may be written, but Jeremiah’s free hand drags one of the papers towards him pointedly.

“Go on,” he urges.

Does Bruce really have any option but to obey?

Upon closer inspection they seem to be transcriptions of conversations. The initials peppered in the margins to denote who is speaking is proof enough that someone, somewhere, had been listening in to J.G’s increasingly frustrated calls to the mainland. There are snippets that have been circled or underlined in red ink, and occasionally there are annotations written in Jeremiah’s neat printing. Bruce can’t bring himself to read what those notes say.

“Keeping tabs on you meant keeping tabs on everyone close to you,” Jeremiah mentions offhandedly, as if his efforts to keep up to date with Bruce’s life were something that anyone reasonable would do. “You were made aware of how this Secretary Walker character was the force behind the Haven Massacre, were you not?”

“Yes.” Bruce fights back the questions that rise to mind; how did Jeremiah figure that out, and how long had he known about it? “I transmitted audio-logs that link her directly to it to my press contacts on the mainland. It won’t be a secret for long.”

Jeremiah hums, his hand slowly trails from Bruce’s lower back to grasp at his opposite hip and pull him closer to his side.

“And do you think that will change anything?”

“It will.” 

It has to.

“Politics are not my forte, but people in power have always had ways to silence the press, have they not?”

“Not everyone on the mainland is like her. Not everyone thinks that Gotham needs to be—to be cleansed with fire just to take out the criminal element without caring about all the other lives lost!” Bruce clenches his teeth and tries to control his temper. “Not everyone plans to condemn us all.” 

Jeremiah leans down slightly to whisper in his ear, his breath gusting against Bruce’s neck and making him shudder. “So hopeful, even in the wake of so many tragedies,” he draws out the final words in poorly feigned sympathy.

“You’re the root of these tragedies.” Even if he has to play nice, Bruce can’t just let Jeremiah get away with talking about Haven as if it didn’t matter. “You crippled my city Jeremiah, with so many innocent civilians still trapped in its borders.”

“I offered six hours to evacuate, which was a completely plausible amount of time had anyone bothered to act swiftly.” He sounds bored at having to explain himself. If he weren’t wearing gloves Bruce could easily imagine him indifferently checking his nails. “I even called to offer an extra hour, since I found myself having to bargain with a few lowlifes, though in the end I had to abandon my original plan. Alas, nothing worked out quite the way it should have until Ra’s came along to show me that my twin obsessions were linked.” He presses a kiss to Bruce’s temple.

His face must be smeared in so much red by now.

Another way for Jeremiah to show off his claim, even though there’s no one but himself around to gaze upon it. 

“You always want to believe the best in everyone, Bruce. It is quite charming for a flaw, but someday soon you will have to let go of your idealism. Reunification did not transpire because the mainland did not want to reunify, it is as simple as that.”

There’s no way you could know that, Bruce wants to say. Instead he bites his tongue hard enough to hurt. 

“They took down the chopper that you had called for supplies, they destroyed Haven without a second thought, they sent in an army unit better suited for—”

Bruce turns and lays his hand gently over Jeremiah’s mouth. Jeremiah pauses out of shock more than decency, his eyes widening as if he can’t believe that Bruce has touched him willingly, softly. 

“You’ve made your point. Please stop.”

Conflicting emotions pass over Jeremiah’s face. Annoyance at being interrupted, amusement at Bruce’s plea, an all-too apparent desire to draw closer and, most infuriating of all, pity.

“Am I giving you too much information to process so soon after you’ve woken?” His hand slips up from Bruce’s elbow to his wrist, keeping him in place so that he can press a kiss to Bruce’s fingertips. “It’s almost noon and you haven’t even eaten yet. How long has it been since you have taken in more than you have burnt off? A few days at the very least although, knowing you as I do, a few months is the far more likely answer.” He keeps hold of Bruce’s hand and tugs on him again. “Come along. I don’t want you passing out again,” amusement finds its way back into his tone, and Bruce hates the way he feels his cheeks flood with an embarrassed heat.

He is lead into the kitchen where Jeremiah holds out a seat for him and Bruce silently takes it, feeling oddly disconnected with his body as he looks over the simple table that had hosted many family meals.

This is where they had been sitting last night, those people made to take the place of Bruce’s parents.

There’s fresh fruit in a bowl in the center of the table, plums and cherries that are likely sourced from trees that had been planted in the gardens by one of his ancestors. But there’s more, too. Jeremiah leaves his side and opens the fridge to take out milk and eggs. Bruce sees a loaf of bread on the counter, as well as a box of what had been his favorite cereal when he was twelve. 

Fresh perishable goods to replace the ones that had undoubtedly rotted when there was no one around to dispose of them.

“You do still take your coffee the same way, don’t you?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, and it’s only partly because he suspects Jeremiah knows already and is only asking to incite more conversation.

Wayne Manor, a historical part of Gotham even if separated by the river, would evidentially make for an excellent base of operations. The expansive grounds, surrounded by the palisades and forested areas, must make it easy for people to slip in and out of the surrounding cities. 

Jeremiah’s tunnel could have been used for good, just like the generators turned bombs. It could have been an admirable project to bring much needed aid into the city when all other routes failed, or even to start getting people out when it became apparent that the mainland wouldn’t be sending the help that they really needed. It could have been the most thoughtful gift that anyone had ever given him, if only its purpose hadn’t been twisted into something wretched.

What would Bruce have done if Jeremiah had presented it to him as a way to make up for his multiple transgressions?

He’ll never know. He shouldn’t even think about it.

(But he might have started the process of forgiving him. He might have compared it to his own desire for redemption.)

Bruce shakes those thoughts away and forces himself to focus on other things.

Jeremiah couldn’t have possibly gone into the nearest other city for these supplies, unless he’d covered his face with concealer and put in contacts, shrouding himself in his old skin. It’s far more likely that he’s had followers going out to grab him the necessities, which means that, even though Bruce hasn’t seen anyone else around the house, Jeremiah may have backup waiting in the wings. He may even have followers infiltrating the surrounding cities for more than just groceries. 

It’s a terrifying thought, but the idea of him dressing up as his old self is something that niggles at the back of Bruce’s mind even more than the idea of Jeremiah’s followers spreading out from this point like a virus.

Bruce hopes that he doesn’t plan on doing something like that with him around. He knows, already, that he wouldn’t be able to stand it. 

He comes back to himself when Jeremiah’s hands settle heavily on the kitchen table across from him.

“Your attention is drifting,” Jeremiah tells him, exasperated, as he leans forward. “What are you thinking about?”

“It’s nothing important.”

Jeremiah clucks his tongue and begins walking over to Bruce’s side of the table. “As if I could believe such slander.” He settles into the chair beside Bruce with an artless grace, holding a hand over his own heart. “I’m here; talk to me.”

He must have perfected his open, guileless countenance back when he still wore concealer and glasses because Bruce knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s been on the receiving end of this expression more than once.

‘I’m here,’ Jeremiah would say when Bruce’s thoughts began a downward spiral, ‘talk to me.’

And Bruce did; he told him everything. It had felt good to tell someone everything. 

And look where his openness got him. 

Bruce bites his lip and turns his gaze away. Obviously, the truth is out of the question. But there is a query that’s been twisting in the back of his mind ever since Jeremiah started emphasizing that this was how he’d been for almost the entire time Bruce had known him. 

“Do you think we would have been friends, even if you hadn’t begun changing?”

Would Jeremiah have opened up to Bruce in the way that he did? Would they have never reached the easy camaraderie that had formed so quickly between them? 

The answer shouldn’t matter to him. An affirmation or a denial, what would either change in the long run? Nothing at all. He finds himself bracing for Jeremiah’s response anyways. 

“Of course we would.”

The certainty in his voice is enough for Bruce to glance back at him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Oh Bruce, how can it be that you think so lowly of yourself? How could the idea that someone would not desire to become close to you even cross your mind?” Jeremiah’s face shifts grimly, angry and knowing all at once. “It is because you have been surrounded by people who have never truly appreciated you. Who have never really seen you.”

“That’s not true.” Bruce turns his gaze away, not wanting to see the effect of his rebuttal.

“You know it is,” Jeremiah wheedles, resting his hand on the back of Bruce’s chair. “They burrowed their way into your good graces for their own sake, knowing that you were too kind-hearted to question their motives. Knowing that the benefits of your companionship and loyalty were without equal. Every friendship you forged before meeting me was imbalanced from the start by those who planned to take all that you could offer, but never give anything back. They did not deserve you.”

“When you say it like that…” Doesn’t that just make you the same, he wants to finish, but he forces himself to hold it in. He can only assume that Jeremiah’s reaction to the comparison wouldn’t go well. He keeps his eyes averted, or at least he tries to, but Jeremiah has his own ideas and soon enough he’s cupping Bruce’s face in his hands and forcing Bruce into eye contact.

Jeremiah gazes at him, eyes roving over his carefully neutral expression, searching for traces of something that Bruce can’t even begin to guess at. 

“It is difficult, I realize, to come to terms with how much you have been exploited by those who would falsely label themselves friends.”

Like he’d been exploited for his money, his resources, his lab, by someone who would continue to say that he thought of Bruce as his best friend? Who would continue to wreak havoc and claim it was all for him?

Yes. It was very difficult to come to terms with.

“But from the beginning I planned to return your friendship ten times over; to be the best friend that you could ever have. The only friend you would ever need. Your kindness, understanding, and loyalty were so graciously bestowed, how could I not respond in kind? I would have been satisfied with friendship, even though—”

Even though he wanted to carry out Jerome’s plans sanely, and more than one of those plans ended in Bruce’s death? Even though he must have known that Bruce would stand against him? Even though, for all his talk of returning Bruce’s friendship, he’d ended up hurting him more than Jerome ever had?

“—I was already half in love with you from our first meeting.”

To hear that word fall so casually from Jeremiah’s lips is startling and Bruce is kept from jerking back only by Jeremiah’s too-firm grasp on his face. He leans in closer so that he is all that Bruce can perceive; blocking everything else out, eclipsing it so wholly that Bruce could almost think that they were the only two people left on Earth.

“Your carefully worded manipulation was somewhat underhanded,” Jeremiah sounds amused again and Bruce winces both at the memory and at the overwhelming feeling of being trapped, “but the authenticity of your statement, the reverence you felt towards my intellect from the very start.” Jeremiah sighs in an infatuated manner. “The way you looked at my blueprints and could tell that what was there had the possibility to change Gotham forever... You saw my work and understood me, Bruce, and I had always longed for a companion who could understand me.” His gaze is unbearably soft for a moment, and it wrenches Bruce’s heart. Then his self-satisfied aura returns, and Bruce is left reeling in its wake. “And then you gave me more than I could have ever asked for.”

“It was money and a lab,” he protests, his voice too soft to his own ears. 

He feels weak. He had thought that he understood Jeremiah. He had thought that Jeremiah understood him. He’d thought that they were like two sides of the same coin.

“It was so much more than that, and you know it.” Jeremiah presses his thumbs firmly into Bruce’s cheeks. “Or would you attempt to deny the innumerable hours we spent together, working in perfect unison? Odd, for a patron to be so hands-on with a project that they are backing, unless there is emotional attachment involved.”

Bruce’s shoulders hunch. “I liked spending time with you. You were my friend.”

“And you are mine.” Jeremiah’s use of the present-tense is pointed, and anger clouds his face. “My muse. My partner.” He lays both of his hands on Bruce’s shoulders and grips them tight enough that he might end up leaving bruises. “My very best friend.” The anger fades from his expression, leaving something frighteningly adoring in its wake. 

Jeremiah is a monster who thinks he’s in love when he doesn’t even know what love is. 

Did he really feel so strongly at their first meeting, or is playing with Bruce’s emotions just another cruel game for him to enjoy? 

“Now that it is just us, together, I can finally become what I am meant to be to you.” Jeremiah’s words are a physical sensation against Bruce’s mouth, and he forces himself to relax even though he knows what’s about to happen. “The most important person in your life.”

Bruce shuts his eyes and waits.

There’s a pause, as if Jeremiah had been expecting, or hoping, that Bruce would be the one to bridge the gap between them. Bruce may have to be the one to initiate eventually, if he’s to force Jeremiah to drop his guard around him enough that he can find out about what else is going on, but he can’t bring himself to do it just yet.

What he can bring himself to do is open his eyes just a sliver and, fighting down his complicated feelings on the matter, whisper, “Jeremiah,” imploringly. 

Something like triumph settles over Jeremiah’s features. Bruce closes his eyes again because he can’t stand to see it.

He hears a soft click, and then—

“Boss?”

Bruce opens his eyes and watches as Jeremiah purses his lips together, evidentially displeased by the interruption.

“Boss?” Ecco’s voice cuts through the silence again and Jeremiah hisses out a sigh before he pulls a two-way radio from inside his suit jacket and glares at it in consideration.

“Take the call, Jeremiah,” Bruce tells him. “I’m not going anywhere, remember?”

“Oh, Bruce, as if I could forget.” Jeremiah reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind Bruce’s ear before he lifts himself out of his chair.

“What,” he grits into the mouthpiece before he has even left the room, “could you possibly be calling me about?”

Bruce waits for one moment, then another, and then he follows after Jeremiah. He’s shut himself in the parlor that he had been in last night, but he’s not whispering into the radio, so Bruce can still make out what he’s saying. 

“The fireworks were a rather whimsical idea on my part. I find they’re even more fitting, now. Certain unpredictable events may have occurred, but I want you to do just as we planned for tonight. We may as well test them out on the pawns, after all.”

Jeremiah chortles, and Bruce’s eyebrows furrow.

By fireworks did he mean bombs, or did he mean actual fireworks?

Had he been planning to end Bruce’s worst day with fireworks?

“Tetch can do what he wants, though I believe it would be foolish not to make use of two extra sets of hands. I know how volatile what we’re working with can be. A pair of convenient backups can hardly go amiss when dealing with chemical agents.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jeremiah is chuckling again.

“Just what I would have expected from Mister Pennyworth—”

Bruce backs away from the door, because he knows if he gets too invested in listening to a conversation about Alfred the likelihood of him getting caught will skyrocket. He slips back to the kitchen and opens a cupboard for a bowl and the cutlery drawer for a spoon, then he grabs the box of cereal he’d spotted earlier. He makes his way back to the seat Jeremiah had guided him into and pours his bowl half-full before grabbing the carton of milk Jeremiah had taken from the fridge and adding just a splash. 

His first bite is…

Too sweet. Too processed. He’d outgrown the cloying flavor before entering his teenaged years and now with his palate completely unaccustomed to this much refined sugar he finds he’d much rather be eating something completely void of flavor. 

He swallows it down, feeling guilty even at the idea of wasting food after months of steadily diminishing rations. He should have taken some of the fruit from the bowl instead, or started cracking open some eggs, but…

But Jeremiah had been listening to Alfred talk about his childhood; important stories and trivial facts alike. Jeremiah had likely had this cereal picked up specifically for him. Seeing him eat it might make Jeremiah happy, it might make him feel like he’s done something special for Bruce. Like Bruce is accepting something from him.

And it’s marginally better than being kissed again. 

He grimaces and takes another bite. At least he’d only poured himself half of a bowl.

Jeremiah steps back into the kitchen and smiles at the sight he finds. Then he sits himself down beside Bruce once more, his arm coming up to rest on the back of Bruce’s chair casually.

“Is it good?”

Bruce wordlessly brings a full spoon close to Jeremiah’s mouth. Half because he doesn’t think he can stomach finishing what he’d poured for himself, and half because the romanticism of the gesture will hopefully make things easier for him.

Fireworks. Chemical agents. A group of hypnotized pawns working on something that would make reunification impossible for good.

That is, if Jeremiah wasn’t wrong about the mainland never wanting to reunify in the first place.

Bruce has to push that thought back, because a small part of him thinks that it could make a mad kind of sense. Arkham had never been enough to hold in the criminally insane of Gotham for long, they always had a way of breaking free. And with such a violent history would the surrounding cities, or the rest of the country, really be willing to wait and see how long it might take for the madness building up inside to start spilling over Gotham’s borders?

Gotham is no longer a city. It’s a prison. Everyone who’s trapped with the guilty are just collateral damage at this point. 

Bruce watches as Jeremiah leans in to take the spoon in his mouth and he tries to keep from shaking, because when he thinks about it like that it seems all too plausible. 

The lack of aid for months. The destruction of the helicopter carrying supplies that would have only done good things for the city at a cost to no one but Bruce. The infiltration by a group who had nothing but bad intentions. 

He hates it, but a very small part of him wonders…

What if Jeremiah was right?

He tries to stomp the thought out of existence. Tries to extinguish it like a flame that’s been lit too close to gunpowder. He has to hold on to hope, because if he lets go of that…

What does he have left?

Jeremiah hums in consideration as he leans back.

“I am not the biggest fan of sugar masquerading as marshmallows.”

“Me either,” Bruce responds feebly, and he pushes the bowl away from him. He can’t bring himself to eat any more. “I suppose my tastes have changed, after six years.”

Change is an inevitability, after all.

He barely manages to hold in a cynical laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May the mental image of Jeremiah faithfully reapplying his lipstick every time he kisses Bruce keep me going, looooord. (Hope you enjoy.)

He’s back in the study after managing to choke down a few bites of the toast and scrambled eggs Jeremiah had prepared for him once it became clear Bruce wouldn’t be able to finish the cereal he’d poured for himself. He’s sitting in the chair he’d sat in while doing everything from trying to solve his parents’ murder to thinking about first kisses. Meanwhile Jeremiah stands beside him, leaning his weight heavily against the desk.

Bruce holds a warm cup of coffee—black, two sugars—in his cold hands as he’s read excerpts of conversations between James Gordon and people in power who couldn’t sound like they cared less about the fate of Gotham if they tried. He attempts to keep his face neutral, but the glances that Jeremiah occasionally sends his way are more than enough proof that he’s slipping up.

Bruce sips at the coffee Jeremiah had brewed for him and takes no comfort in the familiar warmth or taste.

Jeremiah knows how much Bruce loves his city, so of course he’d focus on this. The extreme apathy being shown for Gotham and her people is enraging, it makes Bruce want to—to do _something_ to the faceless voices who’d withheld assistance even as innocent people started dying. Even after so many had died. He doesn’t think putting his hand to Jeremiah’s mouth and asking him to stop will work a second time around, but he considers it all the same.

He doesn’t want to hear any more.

He wants Jeremiah to focus on the other things he had been dying to show Bruce. Surely anything else would be a respite from this hardship.

“Can you believe their reasoning?” Jeremiah asks after reciting a particularly brutal passage. “It’s as if these imbeciles have never had to exercise their critical thinking skills.”

“Corruption is everywhere, Jeremiah. It’s not just Gotham.”

Not everyone who is in power deserves it.

“Very true.” Jeremiah transfers the papers he’s holding into one hand and he removes the mug from Bruce’s loose grip with the other, taking a mouthful himself before returning it to Bruce’s hands. Somehow that action seems more intimate than his kisses had been. Like it was second-nature to him, as if they’d shared drinks like this before. A faint red imprint is left behind on the white rim and Bruce tells himself that he doesn’t stare at it so much as lets his eyes rest on that point as everything else goes out of focus.

Tetch. Fireworks. Chemicals. Bombs. These are the things he should be thinking about. He can’t let Jeremiah get into his head so easily. Reunification is still possible. Not all hope is lost. Not every person on the mainland wants Gotham to act as a darker version of Alcatraz. 

Jeremiah is focusing on the worst on purpose. He has no reason to do otherwise, and he’d told Bruce explicitly that he wanted to guide him into change. He wants to chip away at Bruce until all that’s left is something hurt and vengeful. 

And yet…

With all of the prominent villains securely contained within Gotham, except for the one with enough engineering expertise to plot out a tunnel under the river, did anyone on the mainland truly care enough for the innocent to risk unleashing the dark upon their own cities? If they did, wouldn’t they have—

Bruce sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He can’t let himself think about that.

Gotham was his city. Even if it was always spiraling into chaos, even if so many dark things resided within it, it was his. He would try to protect it, even if no one else would. He may not be at her heart right now, instead stuck on the fringes with Jeremiah as his only companion, but…

Ecco, Jeremiah’s main source of information from the other side of their two-way radio, was located at the center of whatever was brewing. If he was able to exploit her unwavering loyalty to Jeremiah, maybe she could be the key to Bruce’s success. If he got his hands on that radio and was able to get in touch with her, and threatened to do Jeremiah harm, maybe things would finally start tipping in Bruce’s favor. 

“Your attention is drifting again. If this keeps happening I’m going to start thinking that you’re ignoring me on purpose. What could possibly have ensnared your attention?”

“The maze,” trips out of his mouth before he can think things through. “Will you show me the maze?”

Everything about Jeremiah comes to an abrupt halt, as if he’s been frozen for a second, and then his smile twitches. Bruce can’t quite tell if it’s because he’s fighting to keep it on his face, or if he’s fighting to keep it from growing wider.

“Pardon?”

“The maze you would have created if the bombs had gone off in their original locations.” He sounds more confident in his answer, this time. “Will you show it to me?”

He’d much rather be exposed to Jeremiah’s failed plans than this. Though a part of him is darkly curious to see if Jeremiah’s intentions, prior to trying to make the best Gotham for them both and not just for himself, would have left Gotham better or worse off in the long run. His city abandoned by its people with only Jeremiah, and his followers… And him. Even if he wasn’t yet working with Bruce in mind, Jeremiah clearly hadn’t planned on letting Bruce go anywhere. Although his team up with Scarecrow to hurt Alfred and drive Bruce mad had failed, he would have thought of something else to keep Bruce by his side even if his original plan for the generators had succeeded and Ra’s never came into the picture.

Or maybe he wouldn’t even have had to plan something else, sure in the knowledge that Bruce wouldn’t turn his back on Gotham.

“I know that you keep the diagrams and blueprints of all your old projects, Jeremiah.” Bruce sets the coffee down and fights to keep from looking up at the tunnel directly across from him. “Even the ones that didn’t go according to plan.”

“Well, I suppose I could indulge you if you’re so keen on a change of topic,” Jeremiah says, and Bruce wonders if he’d always been so transparent, or if Jeremiah really could still read him this well after months apart. Perhaps his stalker tendencies hadn’t been all for naught. “I can tell that this.” He brandishes the papers before setting them aside. “Has been making you unhappy.”

Yes. Wasn’t that the point?

Or maybe it wasn’t so much about making Bruce unhappy. Maybe it was more about making him angry. Making the darkness inside of him build up until something snapped and it was all set loose, Bruce’s emotions overtaking him and driving him to do something that he would never be able to walk away from. And all the while Jeremiah would watch his descent into darkness with pride and hunger, and whatever it is he felt towards Bruce that he thought was love. 

Jeremiah runs his gloved fingers through Bruce’s hair. Not even a full day has passed, and Bruce already feels somewhat accustomed to the way Jeremiah seems eager to play with his locks. It’s as if it was something he’d been holding back on, before, and now that he knows he can get away with it he’s committed to making up for lost time. 

“Wait for me here, darling.”

Where else would he go?

His gaze settles back on the faint lipstick stain on his white mug as Jeremiah strides away.

He tries to wipe it off with his thumb, but he only spreads the pigment more. 

Perhaps it is grim of him, but he feels like there’s a metaphor here. Symbolism in the way that Jeremiah has stained what he’s touched. Long before Bruce had promised to stay with him he’d started changing Bruce; not always on purpose, not always for the worse. The time they’d spent together, the time they’d spent apart… Jeremiah had been the center of Bruce’s thoughts for too long, of course he’d left marks behind.

Bruce’s gaze settles on the fireplace, and on the brass fire irons on a stand beside it. Jeremiah has left him alone, and it would be so easy for Bruce to cross over to the other side of the room and take a fire iron in his hand. So easy for him to lie in wait for Jeremiah to return. He has more experience with fighting, and with avoiding detection, than Jeremiah. He would never see him coming until it was far too late to dodge…

But what if Bruce hit him too hard? What if he killed him? He’d never be the same again, and Jeremiah would have left a mark on him that even in death he’d be all too proud of. 

What if Jeremiah didn’t go down after one hit? It might not even be worth it. 

And if Ecco was loyal enough that she’d taken a bullet to her head to show her devotion then the likelihood of her negotiating with Bruce and therefore ruining Jeremiah’s plans was slim to none. He’s not even sure if she’d believe him if he threatened to do Jeremiah grievous harm unless she cooperated.

Bruce is not a torturer. Jeremiah knows this, and it’s more than likely that his right-hand-woman knows it as well.

It feels as if, in this situation, his morals are working against him.

Jeremiah returns with edited maps of Gotham and technical drawings of mazes. He lays them out over the desk and patiently begins to explain which buildings were meant to fall, which direction they would have fallen, how he’d calculated the trajectory of their descent after getting a look at their blueprints and carefully planning which load bearing walls to take out first. He seems pleased to show off his genius, and Bruce thinks that he is probably the first person that Jeremiah has shown the entirety of these old plans to.

No one else had been worth the effort.

No one else was Bruce.

He looks upon the dedicated work Jeremiah had completed long before he’d shown his true colours, and he hears Jeremiah’s steady voice wash over him just like it used to when he was explaining fascinating things to Bruce, and he knows that asking to see the maze was a mistake. 

He keeps making mistakes.

Looking over Jeremiah’s meticulous plans, just the two of them, in a quiet room in an otherwise empty house with the nearest other person miles away…

“This is rather reminiscent of old times, is it not?” Jeremiah says exactly what Bruce has been thinking. This situation is too familiar. The only changes are the subject that Jeremiah is talking about, and the way that Jeremiah looks. 

Because by the time they had started spending hours together like this Jeremiah had already changed. 

“One might even go so far as to say that it’s highly evocative,” he drawls the final two words, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “I used to catch the sight of wonder in your eyes as I explained the generators to you and I wanted so desperately to keep it all for myself. You were such an avid listener, it made me feel—” Jeremiah lays a hand over Bruce’s, intertwining their fingers. “—intoxicated, at times. I’d never felt more powerful than in the moments where you were hanging onto my every word. The weight of your regard was magnificent.” 

Bruce swallows dryly. 

“You were brilliant. You still are.”

He’s not only saying that to make Jeremiah more at ease around him so that he’ll slip up. It’s merely fact. A difficult truth, but a truth none the less, and Jeremiah radiates satisfaction at Bruce’s comment just as much as he radiates danger.

“Do you know what I would sometimes imagine,” his voice drops to a low whisper, “while we were alone together?”

Bruce is fairly certain that he could hazard a guess.

“I would see that awe on your face and I would think about what it would be like to be the only person who you looked at like that. I thought about how I might accomplish such a crucial task. I knew that you weren’t ready for my newly awoken brilliance, but the heart wants what the heart wants, even if it would mean sequestering you away from all the people who would dare to call themselves your friends so that the time spent apart would give you the opportunity to realize that they were unworthy of your attention.” Jeremiah sighs in a heartfelt manner that is completely at odds with the controlling nature of his words. “Tell me, Bruce, would you have enjoyed my labyrinth?”

“I would have enjoyed it more than what you accomplished with Ra’s.” 

Maybe all the civilians would have been able to evacuate in six hours. Maybe everyone Bruce cared for would be safe across the river. Maybe his city wouldn’t be so overrun with violence and evil, because only a handful of people would have been left within its borders.

Jeremiah hums, pleased, and he squeezes Bruce hand as he leans in.

“Do you know what else I thought about when we worked together?” He chuckles when Bruce stays silent. “Come on Bruce, take a guess.”

“I used to think about kissing you,” Bruce says instead, because it’s easier than guessing whatever else Jeremiah might have had running through his mind besides fantasies about isolating him.

Jeremiah’s hand twitches in his grip.

When did he start holding him back?

“Now there’s an idea,” Jeremiah murmurs as he tugs Bruce into a standing position, then turns him around so that the backs of his thighs are pressed against the desktop. “Simple. Sweet. We can build on it as we go.” His hands settle on Bruce’s hips and he lifts him up so that Bruce is sitting on the desk.

His heart stutters in his chest at that, because he’s only human.

“I used to think about kissing too,” Jeremiah tells him as his hands drift from Bruce’s hips to his knees. “And biting the beautiful curve at the base of your throat hard enough that you’d bruise.” His hands push Bruce’s legs apart and he steps between them. Bruce starts to feel a little lightheaded. Wasn’t there something he’d been meaning to do the next time that Jeremiah kissed him? “And stripping you out of your soft sweaters to see what laid underneath, to see where else I could mark you.”

Detonator.

Bruce needs to use this opportunity to see if he has the detonator on him. 

He rests his arms over Jeremiah’s shoulders and spreads his legs a little wider. He can see the way Jeremiah’s pupils expand, just like they had last night. 

“What else?”

Jeremiah laughs under his breath, surprised and delighted. His hands trail to the underside of Bruce’s legs and he hooks them around his waist.

“Even back then I knew that there was a connection between us, although I did not yet comprehend how deeply it ran. I dreamed of bringing us closer, I yearned to bind us together. I would work alongside you and think about what your reaction would be if I told you how strongly I felt, and how much I was willing to do for you.” Bruce drags his hands down Jeremiah’s front. He feels something on his left side, too small to be the radio, but he forces himself to brush over it without skipping a beat. “It’s a shame that I never acted on those desires, we could have been this close months ago.”

What would Bruce have done if they’d made it to more than friends before Jeremiah came clean about his true self? His betrayal had already hurt so much, if they’d been even closer—

Jeremiah kisses him and Bruce settles his hands on his hips, hesitantly pressing back against his mouth. 

What would Alfred think of this? What would Selina?

Would they be understanding of what he felt was necessary, or would they hate Bruce for giving in so easily? Would they tell him he should be fighting harder to free himself and make his way back to them? Would they detest him for allowing Jeremiah to get this close after all that he’d put them through?

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’tthinkaboutit. 

His hands grip Jeremiah’s hips tighter. His eyes start stinging. Jeremiah’s tongue traces the seam of his lips and he jerks once again at the slick feeling, and Jeremiah huffs out an amused sound against his mouth. 

Left inner pocket, he tells himself as Jeremiah’s hands start trailing down his back. Something is in his left inner pocket, and even if it’s not the detonator it’s probably an important piece to one of his schemes. Or at least, Bruce hopes it is.

The next time Jeremiah drags his tongue across his lips Bruce tentatively parts them and Jeremiah is quick to take advantage. He slides inside of Bruce’s mouth like he thinks he belongs there, and his hands drag Bruce right to the edge of the desk. Bruce crosses his ankles behind Jeremiah, instinctively seeking support with his balance so unstable, and his heartbeat trips in his chest.

He’s never been kissed like this before. Jeremiah tilts his head, his tongue grazing against the roof of Bruce’s mouth, and Bruce lets out a soft noise that sounds far too encouraging. 

This is too much. He can’t do this. This is too much.

He likes it.

His hands twist into the lapels of Jeremiah’s suit jacket and he tugs. “Too fast,” he murmurs urgently against Jeremiah’s lips. “We’re going too fast.”

Jeremiah pulls away from his mouth, but only to lay kisses along the column of Bruce’s neck instead. Once he gets to the base, just like he’d said he wanted to, he bites hard enough that Bruce hisses in pain. 

When he pulls back there’s a content look on his face and a fresh bruise already blooming where his mouth had been.

“Are you the type who wants to be wined and dined, danced and romanced, before going too far, Bruce? How endearing.”

It doesn’t sound mocking. Maybe Jeremiah means it.

Bruce’s entire body feels hot. He’d avert his eyes, but he knows well enough by now that it’s pointless, because Jeremiah will take his face in his hands and force him to look back at him.

“Don’t I deserve that much? If you are to be the most important person in my life, then am I not meant to be the most important in yours? You shouldn’t treat me like I’m a conquest, I deserve to be… Wooed,” he finishes somewhat lamely. He belatedly wonders if his words are at odds with his body, since his legs are still firmly wrapped around Jeremiah’s waist. He uncrosses his ankles and lets them fall on either side of Jeremiah’s hips. They’re still overwhelmingly close, but not quite as intimate. 

Jeremiah, unsurprisingly, laughs under his breath.

“You have been the most important person in my life for months, darling.” He lays a cool glove overtop of Bruce’s hot cheek. “But I suppose I can see where you’re coming from. You still don’t fully realize how much you mean to me, and you’re still underestimating your worth. I’ll have to show you how serious I am.”

Even voiced as it is, with adoration clear as day, it sounds like a threat.

Bruce stares into Jeremiah’s gleaming eyes and lays a hand against the side of Jeremiah’s face. The way he leans into the contact is almost reminiscent of a touch-starved cat. 

“Then show me.”

Bruce can only hope that, unlike a cat, Jeremiah showcasing his affection won’t end with dead bodies being presented at his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like it's been so much longer than a day, Bruce thinks in this chapter.  
> It suuuure does. Over 20K words for 24 hours, good christ. Maybe this is why I don't write a lot of multi-chaptered fic, fffffff.
> 
> What Jeremiah quotes to Bruce is from a medical text from ancient Mesopotamia, which without context sounds like a very weird thing to use here but when I first heard it it just screamed _Jeremiah_ at me, and I'm pretty sure you'll see why. ;)

The sun is beginning to set. In a few more hours it will be a full day since Bruce unthinkingly managed to stumble into Jeremiah’s clutches, but it feels so much longer than that. Without his friends, without his family, he feels unmoored. There’s very little left to anchor him in place when Jeremiah starts dragging him towards dark and unchartered waters. It’s only himself and his slowly crumbling resolve.

It’s easier to be strong when there are other people around that he needs to be strong for. It’s harder when it’s just himself.

Or maybe Jeremiah is far more proficient at manipulation than Bruce had thought he would be.

Bruce crosses his arms and curls in on himself, trying to ignore the sound of Jeremiah’s cheerful humming.

They’re up on the roof, Jeremiah having herded him here not long after they’d had a late lunch consisting of a stew that Bruce had known without a doubt that Alfred must have made the day before. The mere act of eating had almost brought him to tears.

He’s not sure if Jeremiah had actually eaten at all, because as far as Bruce could tell he’d mostly just sat there and stared pointedly every time Bruce had set down his spoon, unsure if he could manage any more. All Bruce had seen him have today was that one bite of cereal, and that stolen sip of his coffee. It makes Jeremiah seem even more inhuman. It makes it seem as if he feasts on things beyond human comprehension; as if he sups on Bruce’s sadness, or perhaps just on the sight of him. 

He’d been glad when Jeremiah had escorted him to his bedroom and told him to change into something warmer, because he’d needed the few minutes alone to pull himself together.

He hasn’t felt this weak in years.

They’ve been making trips up and down the stairs—Jeremiah with a constant spring in his step as if his energy will never run dry—to bring up blankets and pillows, and whatever else Jeremiah believes they have a need for. Bruce has been halfheartedly putting together a nest of sorts while across from him Jeremiah sets up a telescope that had probably never been used in Bruce’s lifetime, until now, and he makes small adjustments as he points it towards the heart of Gotham.

Jeremiah had asked if he wanted to be romanced. 

What could be more romantic than watching fireworks?

Bruce isn’t really much for stargazing, but he imagines that with the light pollution in Gotham so severely diminished, and so few cars being driven now that gas is a rare commodity, that the night sky must be clearer than it’s been in maybe a hundred years. He’d never bothered looking up at it, or asked Alfred to point out constellations to him; there were too many important matters to focus on back on the ground and he’d had no time left over to look up at the night sky. 

He wishes—

There was no point in wishing though, was there? And why should he wish that Jeremiah would direct the telescope up to the sky instead of towards whatever destruction he was set on testing out tonight? At least this way he can keep how twisted Jeremiah is in the forefront of his mind. 

The negative feelings that he has towards Jeremiah feel like they slip into the background when he remembers excerpts of conversations that light a spark of anger in his chest. 

Gotham is his. Gotham had been abandoned by the mainland for months. Even if it was all due to corrupted people in positions of power, that didn’t change what they’d been left to face alone. Jeremiah was far from being the only malevolent force in Gotham. The remnants of Indian Hill, and the countless gangs, and the things that had once hid deep in the dark had all come out to rip his city apart. And still, nothing. Then when help finally seemed to arrive it was only so that they could continue carrying out their own destructive agenda.

He hates them, he hates them, _he hates them_ —

But Jeremiah is the reason behind their separation from the mainland. Bruce needs to try and focus more on that than the fact that it really does seems as though Gotham’s not only been cast aside but also attacked by those who they’ve been pleading with for aid. 

He’d slipped up earlier when they were kissing. He knows it’s not entirely his fault, his body was just processing and reacting to stimulation, and the way the scene had been set had been entirely too much like some of his fondest memories of Jeremiah, but it feels like a failure on his part to admit that it had felt good, even if only towards the end. 

What would Alfred and Selina think?

(Don’t think about it.)

He settles down in the circle of blankets and pillows that he’d set up and pulls a soft duvet over his shoulders. The sun dips fully underneath the horizon, leaving a sky touched by oranges and pinks in the west and darkening blues to the east. It’s still too bright for stars, but in another quarter of an hour…

“There,” Jeremiah murmurs under his breath. “Absolutely perfect.”

He turns his attention away from the telescope, and when his eyes land on Bruce they light up with something that Bruce can’t put a name to but is becoming all too familiar none the less. 

He crouches in front of Bruce and his fingers skim the edges of the duvet, tucking Bruce inside more securely. It would almost be sweet, if Bruce wasn’t painfully aware of what a paragon of destruction he was.

Jeremiah had blown up the bridges.

“I’ll just be a few moments,” he says while tucking Bruce’s unruly bangs away from his face. “Wait here for me, my dear.” He presses a kiss to Bruce’s forehead. “It won’t be much longer, now.”

He leaves, and Bruce is left staring up at the darkening sky with a heavy feeling in his chest.

He remembers the last time that he was alone up here. Twelve years old, reeling from the death of his parents, sure that he could have done something if only he hadn’t been so scared. He’d stood on the edge, a naive kid with naive ideas about how to conquer his fears. He remembers how Detective Gordon and Alfred had reacted to his earliest flirtation with danger.

He wonders what Jeremiah would do if he were to come back and Bruce was standing on the edge. He wonders what Jeremiah would do if Bruce looked him in the eyes as he—

Bruce huffs out a shaky breath and forces the thought to remain unfinished. This isn’t like him, he could never do something like that even if he ignored the fact that his presence here, alive, was helping to keep his city just a fraction safer. Or at least safer for the people he cares for the most.

(The mainland had done nothing to keep his city safe. If anything, the mainland had actively worked against their attempts to reunify. Jeremiah may have blown up the bridges, but the mainland blew up Haven.) 

He’s left alone for long enough that the sky goes completely dark. It’s a warm summer night but he feels a chill in his bones that doesn’t diminish no matter how tightly he curls into the duvet. Jeremiah might be talking to Ecco, or Tetch, pleased with how all of his plots are working out. Maybe he’s talking to someone about Alfred again, because Bruce knows that Alfred isn’t going to stop until he’s found Bruce, just like Bruce hadn’t stopped. It might be a while before anyone else realizes that Jeremiah is still alive but surely the leftover police force has enough time, or curiosity, to try and figure out the end point of Jeremiah’s tunnel, and once they knew that… 

But it had been left as it was for so long without any investigation until Bruce had arrived at its maw. No one else had bothered to look. They hadn’t even bothered to look for Jeremiah’s body. How many things would have played out differently if someone, before Bruce, had decided to get to the bottom of what everyone thought was Jeremiah’s final move?

It’s hard to shake off the lure of what-ifs.

He hears Jeremiah before he sees him, humming that same cheery tune that he had been while setting up the telescope. Bruce doesn’t look at him as he sets something down beside him, he avoids looking for as long as he can, until Jeremiah is crouching down in front of him and digging into the duvet to grab onto Bruce’s hands.

“I’m sorry about the wait, darling, but something required a small amount of my personal attention. Now that I am back there’s something I want you to see,” he tells Bruce as he pulls him into a standing position. The duvet falls from his shoulders as he’s tugged forward in the direction of the telescope. Jeremiah guides him towards it, brimming with even more energy than he had been earlier.

“It won’t be very long.” Jeremiah looks down at his watch and smirks. “Less than a minute, in fact. You should start looking or you’ll miss it.”

Bruce leans towards the eyepiece, gazing at a dark patch of Gotham’s distant skyline. He can feel Jeremiah settle behind him, his chest brushing against Bruce’s back. The closeness cuts through the chill inside of him and makes him warm, even though he wishes it wouldn’t.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Oh Bruce, don’t insult me,” Jeremiah whispers in his ear. “Do you really think that I, who know you better than you know yourself, would be unaware of you following me to listen in on my private conversation with Ecco? You know what to look for.”

Bruce goes tense and he makes to move away, but Jeremiah is already a step ahead of him. 

“Don’t—” Jeremiah’s voice is sharp with warning as he lays a firm hand on the back of Bruce’s neck. “—turn away. I want you to see.”

An eruption of brilliant, acid green fireworks spreads across the magnified Gotham skyline.

They’re almost beautiful. 

“Special fireworks for your special day.”

Bruce feels sick.

“Special day?”

“That day, six years ago tomorrow, was the most pivotal day of your life. The anniversary of it deserves a bit of fanfare, no?” The hand on his neck drifts up to play with his hair. “I wanted to make you re-live the entire evening, I had it all mapped out and scheduled. Dinner and a movie and strands of broken pearls as mommy and daddy dearest were left swiftly bleeding out on the pavement. It was very important to me to get every detail exactly right.” Jeremiah’s arms wrap around Bruce, pulling him tighter against Jeremiah’s chest. “With a few mandatory exceptions, of course.”

His lips trail down Bruce’s neck, and he hums in contentment when his teeth graze over the bruise he’d left earlier. “It was the most important day of your life, and I didn’t get to be a part of it. I simply could not let that happen a second time around. This time I would have been the star of the show. Just as with my maze it didn’t quite go according to plan, but how fortunate it is for the both of us that you made your way to my side days ahead of schedule. To be bonded to one another by love is so much more idyllic than to be bonded by hatred, don’t you think?” He presses one hand firmly over Bruce’s heart while the other begins to lazily trail down his abdomen.

“This was just the test run, but you knew that already. Tomorrow we won’t need a telescope to take in the splendor.”

Whatever he has planned for tomorrow, it’s going to light up the night sky like a deranged beacon. Bruce doesn’t know what exactly those fireworks are, but he knows they’re nothing good. 

“What about—” Bruce’s heartbeat trips in his chest when he feels Jeremiah’s gloved fingers start grazing the skin just underneath the waist of his pants. “—what about the conditions of our deal?”

“I’ve left a few clues to give those riffraff who don’t deserve your loyalty a fighting chance. If they aren’t able to keep themselves safe after the effort I put in for your sake, well, it’s hardly my fault that they’ve once again proven themselves incompetent.”

The anger that he’s been trying to hold in ever since Jeremiah started reading the radio transcripts to him sparks to life, blazing uncontrollably as even more fuel is added to the fire. 

He can’t hurt the mainland for their many transgressions. But he can hurt Jeremiah for his. 

Bruce smashes his head back into Jeremiah’s face, then elbows him in the stomach. He twists in the loosening circle of Jeremiah’s arms and snarls as his hands come up between them, forcing Jeremiah to stumble back. 

Blood is dripping from his nose but he doesn’t bother wiping it away, he only smiles at Bruce wide enough to show off his pearly teeth.

“There’s my little fighter.”

“I’m not your anything!” Bruce lashes out. He’s more collected and better rested than he had been during their altercation yesterday; he’s going to do better this time. 

“Such spirit,” Jeremiah laughs wildly, even as Bruce’s fist catches him in the side of the face. “But I beg to differ. You’re my—”

Bruce strikes him hard where Selina’s knife had pierced through flesh multiple times, and he feels darkly gratified when whatever Jeremiah had meant to say is cut off by all of the air rushing out of his lungs. He makes to aim there a second time but Jeremiah twists and dodges, and once he’s caught his breath he hisses out,

“You’re my everything.”

Bruce tackles him to the hard surface of the roof, his hands once again finding their way to Jeremiah’s neck, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He doesn’t need answers tonight.

Jeremiah grins, even as his air is cut off, and he taps something idly against Bruce’s unprotected stomach. Bruce glances down and sees a knife; he should have realized that he’d have a weapon on him. He knows that Jeremiah won’t kill him, but he’s also sure that Jeremiah would think nothing of stabbing him as long as it meant Bruce would be unable to leave his side. His hands loosen and Jeremiah pulls the knife away, then he tries to flip their positions. 

Bruce falls back and is quick to get up to his feet. But then, so is Jeremiah. There’s colour on his cheeks, as if the exertion of their fight is finally making him a little more human. 

Or maybe, Bruce thinks faintly as he watches Jeremiah lick his lips, he just finds it exhilarating.

He pushes that thought aside as he rushes forward. They trade punches and jabs, and Bruce is able to land another hit on Jeremiah’s wound, and he feels a grim satisfaction at the knowledge that Jeremiah must be hurting. He deserves to hurt. At one point Jeremiah gets close enough to knee Bruce in the stomach and Bruce retaliates by pushing him up against the barrier around the roof, his hands fisted in Jeremiah’s suit jacket.

“You’re insane,” he hisses in Jeremiah’s face, taking pleasure in the way Jeremiah’s expression twists unhappily, before pulling an arm back to punch him across the jaw twice in succession. “You say you do these things for me, out of love for me, but you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

“I know enough.” Jeremiah’s hands firmly settle over his own, then he knees Bruce in the stomach for a second time before his fist hits just below Bruce’s right eye. Bruce grits his teeth and soon finds himself pressed against the roof’s edge with Jeremiah’s hands holding him tightly. 

“When the patient is continually clearing his throat; is often lost for words; is always talking to himself when he is quite alone, and laughing for no reason in the corners of fields,” Jeremiah begins to recite breathlessly, wide eyes roving over Bruce’s face, “is habitually depressed, his throat tight, finds no pleasure in eating or drinking, endlessly repeating, with great sighs, ‘ah, my poor heart’.” He brings up a hand to trace the edge of what is sure to be a brilliant black eye before he fists his fingers in Bruce’s hair. “He is suffering from lovesickness,” he finishes softly.

“People don’t usually hurt the ones they love as much as you’ve hurt me.”

Jeremiah wrenches Bruce’s head back and Bruce finds himself leaning over the side of the roof, feeling like he’s only a gentle push away from falling. His hands curl into Jeremiah’s jacket and he fights to keep calm.

“It’s never been about hurting you, Bruce, it’s been about making you see, about making you grow into the person who you’re meant to become. You could be so strong. There are so many ugly truths in the world, and you’ve been let down time and time again because you always want to believe the best of people who could not care less about you. They’ve kept you weak, they’ve kept you compliant. But I’m not like them. I’ve never been like them, Bruce.” He presses himself even closer, and Bruce has nowhere to retreat to.

“You need me, just as much as I need you. I am the answer to your life’s question,” he states it with such vigor that Bruce knows that Jeremiah believes it completely, “I can, and I will, show you how to become the best version of yourself,” he promises. “Even if it takes me months, or years, to do so.”

Years. Was Jeremiah really planning so far ahead?

“Without each other we’re not complete; we’re just jokes without a punchline.”

The way he says it is tender, sentimental, even though it’s at complete odds with the way he’s pinning Bruce at the roof’s edge.

Maybe Bruce had miscalculated somewhere along the line. Maybe it isn’t that Jeremiah doesn’t know what love is, it’s that his version of it is just as twisted as he himself had become. Jeremiah is a wild beast who loves him, in his own way, and tends to show it by leaving the bodies of dead prey on his doorstep. 

“You worked together with Ra’s, the things he did—the things that he made me do—”

“And was it not Selina Kyle who assisted with bringing you to Ra’s al Ghul’s body so that he could be revived,” Jeremiah cuts in.

How could he even know about that?

“Was it not Selina Kyle who took the side of Miss Kean and Miss Galavan over yours afterwards? Was it not she who, years ago, lied about seeing the face of your parents’ murderer, she who’s been toying with your emotions ever since you were a child? You seem to have forgiven her for all of those trespasses.”

Bruce doesn’t even know what to say. His mind is blank except for a humming white noise, as if his inner thoughts are a radio station that has been cutting out. 

Jeremiah takes a small step back, bringing Bruce with him, drawing him away from the physical edge he’d been teetering on as his words push him towards an entirely different brink.

“And she isn’t the sole perpetrator who dug herself a space in your heart only to hurt you. I could start listing more names and betrayals, if that would help you see the point I’m trying to make.”

“That’s not necessary.” 

“Are you certain?” Jeremiah tilts his head in mock thoughtfulness. “I’d hate not to be thorough.”

“Jeremiah,” Bruce breathes, feeling as though he can hardly take in enough air already. “Please.”

“Give me a name. A name of someone else who has failed you, tell me how they hurt you,” Jeremiah asks beseechingly, the hand pulling on Bruce’s hair loosens, running through his curls in a comforting manner. “Just one name is all that I ask, and I’ll keep the rest of my methodically researched list to myself.”

It should be easy. Bruce has been hurt again and again, it seems. Theo Galavan, Silver St. Cloud, Jerome Valeska, Ra’s al Ghul…

But none of those are a name that Jeremiah wants.

“James Gordon,” he answers softly. It feels like a betrayal to say it, but he has to give Jeremiah something that will keep him satisfied. “He promised me that he would find my parents’ killer. In the end I found Matches Malone without him. I found out about the Court of Owls without him. And when I found myself in a room full of the people who’d ordered and agreed with the murder of my parents, I saw them all be killed without him, too.” His gaze shifts down. Remembering that time of his life was always rife with self-hatred, even if he’d been brainwashed by a cult. Perhaps it was comparable to the way that Jeremiah had been changed by Jerome’s parting gift. “And I did nothing to stop it.” 

The comparison, now that it’s in his head, is impossible to shake away. 

“There,” Jeremiah smiles as if Bruce has given him an extraordinary gift, “don’t you feel better now after admitting it out loud?”

No.

He feels even worse than before.

Tetch. Fireworks. Chemicals. Bombs. Not even the people he loves the most are completely safe from Jeremiah and fighting him had only left Bruce in this terrible position. What would he have done if he gained the upper hand, anyway? Go back through the tunnel to get back to Alfred, who’d probably had a target on his back ever since he’d returned to the Green Zone? There was no way of knowing if Ecco had orders to do whatever she liked should Jeremiah fall out of contact with her.

Tetch. Fireworks. Chemicals. Bombs.

Had Bruce agreeing to stay with Jeremiah even made a difference?

“You’re getting lost in your own head again, Bruce.” Jeremiah presses a gentle kiss to the bruising skin around his eye. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“There’s nowhere I can go that you wouldn’t follow.”

The smile that breaks across Jeremiah’s face is breathtaking and terrifying, all at once.

“Now you’re starting to understand, darling.”

He guides Bruce back into the nest of pillows and blankets and settles down beside him before opening the picnic basket he’d brought up with him on his final trip. He pulls out an icepack, as if he’d predicted a scuffle. Jeremiah holds it tenderly against Bruce’s eye until Bruce is able to move his own hand up to keep it in place. 

“Tomorrow the show will go on for much longer,” he promises as he digs through the basket for something else, and eventually he pulls out a thermos. “But for tonight all we have left to look at are the stars, and each other.” He unscrews the lid of the thermos and holds it out in offering. “Cocoa?”

Bruce doesn’t even bother to compare the list of pros and cons before he takes it with his free hand. He feels worn down. He feels trapped. He feels the way he felt before he killed Ra’s al Ghul the first time. Like he’s on the brink of something that he can never walk away from.

And he still feels so very angry. And not all of that anger is directed at the man beside him. 

Jeremiah throws an arm over his shoulders and reels him in close.

It could almost be romantic. 

“Why did you let me overhear you if you were going to show me the fireworks whether I knew about them or not?”

“I told you before, Bruce, that I want you here as my equal. I want to be able to tell you things. I don’t want to keep you in the dark about everything that’s going on. One day, when everything is as it should be, I won’t have to keep anything a secret from you, well, except for a few surprises here and there to make things between us more fun.” He presses a kiss to Bruce’s temple and laughs. “Until then, though, baby steps.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “Was it a test, then?”

If it was, he’s pretty certain he failed it. 

“Not a test. Not a trap. Just a little something to see how you’d react and, as always, you did not disappoint.” Jeremiah lays a hand over the place where Selina had stabbed him, where Bruce had punched him more than once. “You are rather vicious when you need to be.”

Bruce wants to deny it.

But he can’t.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who FINALLY watched the last episode of Gotham and is still SCREAMING about it. That's right, it is I.
> 
> "I was waiting for him to come home." OH MY GOD. "Do you know how it feels to have the one, the only thing you love ripped away from you?" JESUS CHRIST, I am shaKING.
> 
> Anyways, have a new chapter. (I had wanted to write a bit more soft!Jeremiah x Bruce after this to make up for all the stuff I am putting my poor son through, but gooooosh, that last episode has me feeling thingsssss for full-on-Joker Jeremiah.)

He wakes up to the feeling of being watched, as if he needed another blatant reminder that Jeremiah felt that he was entitled to Bruce’s space, Bruce’s attention, Bruce’s entire being. He considers pretending to be asleep, but he can feel the dip at the edge of his bed where Jeremiah is sitting, and the weight of Jeremiah’s gaze, and he is almost certain that merely looking at him will not sustain Jeremiah for long. 

He may as well get it over with.

Plus, Jeremiah had probably already realized that he’d woken up. He was incredibly uncanny when it came to his knowledge of Bruce. 

With a sigh Bruce opens his eyes and is unprepared for what he finds. 

Jeremiah looks soft and unpolished in the hazy morning light; his face free of makeup, his hair unruly, his pajamas the most understated articles of clothing that Bruce has ever seen him in. If his skin were not so chalky, and his eyes not so eerie, Bruce could almost imagine this scene occurring between them once upon a time when the potential for so much good was carried between them. 

The ache of his heart in his chest has become too familiar. 

Then Jeremiah smiles, and it’s far from a soft or comforting expression. 

“Today’s the big day,” he tells Bruce, excitement clear in his tone. “We mustn’t waste a moment of it.”

June 26th has arrived at long last. Six years ago Bruce was changed forever, and apparently all that’s happened to him since then has somehow lead him to this moment, spending the anniversary with a man so obsessed with him that he’d wanted Bruce to re-live the worst day of his life just so that they could be bound together for as long as they drew breath.

Bruce briefly contemplates pulling the covers over his head and trying to ignore Jeremiah. He doesn’t want to think about whatever’s got Jeremiah in such a good mood, or any of his schemes for the day.

He’s not sure what those fireworks can do and how widespread they’ll be, but he’s had an entire night of fitful tossing and turning to ruminate on the most likely possibilities. He’s not sure if there’s anything he can possibly do to stop it and, though he tries to fight off his growing feelings of apprehension, he’s not sure if he fully believes that whatever is left of Gotham’s police force will be able to handle it, because… 

Wasn’t it at least partially their fault that he was here?

If someone had just tried to figure out what Jeremiah’s not-so-final scheme had been, then wouldn’t it have been foiled? Wouldn’t he still be with Alfred at this very moment?

He feels… Tired, resigned, as if all he’s done so far has been for nothing, as if giving himself up had changed nothing. He’s just been drawn towards some dark, inevitable fate, the same one that he’d been pushed towards years ago, when he’d been taken from his home. The same one he’d been pushed towards when he stood back and watched as the Court of Owls paid for their sins with their lives. The same one he’d been pushed towards when he’d driven that blade through Alfred’s chest while Ra’s observed him.

(The same one Jeremiah had been pushed towards when he’d opened Jerome’s parting gift.)

The same one he’d been pushed towards when he killed Ra’s. 

He hates thinking of Ra’s, hates thinking of what that man viewed him as, hates that he became a fixation for so many vile people. He doesn’t want to be Bruce Wayne, heir of Ra’s al Ghul, Dark Knight of a broken Gotham.

But if that wasn’t what he was meant to become, then why was he the only one who could kill Ra’s? Why was his destiny steeped in death?

Jeremiah reaches his hands out, free of gloves for the first time since Bruce had given himself over. He tilts Bruce’s chin up with one hand and traces the tender skin around Bruce’s bruising eye with the other. He doesn’t look apologetic, merely contemplative, but Bruce isn’t particularly sorry about the pain he’d inflicted on Jeremiah last night, either. He can see a dark stain on his sleep shirt, blood having continued to seep out of his stitched wound after Bruce had taken it upon himself to aim for the weak spot last night.

He and Jeremiah are already tied together in some way. Destined to hurt each other.

But him trying to hurt Jeremiah never seemed to accomplish anything. Or at least, it never accomplished anything that benefitted him.

Tetch. Fireworks. Chemicals. Bombs.

Was there anything that he could do to save his city from Jeremiah’s machinations?

“How are you feeling?”

Terrible.

“I’ve had worse.”

Jeremiah shifts closer and his hand drifts down to press against the bruise he’d left with his mouth. It aches at the pressure. Then he leans in to press a kiss to the sore spot and Bruce’s heart stutters in his chest in exactly the way he wishes it wouldn’t.

“I don’t forgive you for the things you’ve done, and I never will.”

No matter what, he can at least carry that truth with him.

“I have never asked for your forgiveness, I do not need your forgiveness. Someday you will understand, and that will be so much greater than anything else you could offer me.”

Because all Jeremiah had ever wanted was a companion who could understand him.

Or so he’d said.

“I could never make sense of the things you have done.”

“Don’t lie to yourself. You’re beginning to recognize that all I have told you has been the truth. Soon you will see as I see.”

Bruce shakes his head. He doesn’t want to believe that is even within the realm of possibility.

Even when Jeremiah doesn’t outright lie, he twists the facts one way or another.

“Denial won’t stop what’s coming to pass. You’ve started changing Bruce, I can tell that you have.” Jeremiah’s bare hands grab hold of his own. “The process has already begun.”

He isn’t wrong. A meager number of hours with only Jeremiah for company has had Bruce second guessing himself, and what he knows, and his place in the world. The more he thinks about it the more he believes that Jeremiah was right when he told Bruce that the mainland never wanted to reunify in the first place, and that belief tears at his insides as the anger welling up inside of him continues to rage with no constructive outlet.

Gotham was broken, even before it had been cut off from the rest of the world.

They were damned from the start.

How long would it have taken, even without Jeremiah’s bombs, for everyone else to turn their back on them? One more villainous uprising? Two? The darkness in Gotham had long since overtaken the goodness and the world had watched with baited breath and no offers of aid each time the city descended further into chaos. 

“I tried to resist my true nature at first, too.” Jeremiah whispers, as if he’s sharing an agonizing secret. Bruce wants to believe it’s true. He wants to believe that Jeremiah struggled with what he was becoming before he succumbed to his tragically inevitable fate. It hurts to think about, but he wishes it was real all the same. “To have my eyes opened with the aid of Jerome, of all people, was something that could not have possibly been right. Oh, how I fought against the change before I realized that giving in was not a sign of weakness, but a sign of fortitude. It takes courage to become what you are destined to be. Adversity is the mother of progress.” His thumbs trace soothing circles on the backs of Bruce’s hands. 

“Why are you so certain that you changed for the better?”

Jeremiah’s eyes light up, as if Bruce has finally started asking the right questions.

“Before it was like I had been living only half-aware of my surroundings, and when I began to change it was as if I became fully cognizant for the first time. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much. It took time to adjust to my increased level of perception, but when I did I was able to see the world as it truly is. I was able to see Gotham as it truly is. How could such a change not be for the better?” He brings Bruce’s hands, one after the other, up to his mouth to lay kisses on his knuckles.

“Gotham was already on the verge of collapsing in on itself,” Jeremiah tells him as the hands which held him at the edge of the roof yesterday hold onto him tenderly. “So fraught with turmoil, with madness, with corruption. I would have brought order to it with my maze.”

“There would have hardly been anyone left in the city after the evacuation.”

“Precisely.” Jeremiah shifts even closer. “Just you and I, and a handful of lackeys, in a utopia of my own making. In a word; paradise.”

Bruce has a terrible, gnawing thought that the chemicals that Jeremiah had spoken of before might actually be his final solution for removing the unwanted masses from Gotham. 

What had happened to the pawns of yesterday’s test run?

The fireworks that would be lighting up the sky tonight; what exactly were they made of?

Toxic green, volatile chemicals; the kind where a pair of ‘convenient backups’ for production and distribution wouldn’t go amiss, because mishandling them was a death sentence. 

“Gotham is a city that eats her young, one has to adapt to survive it. You’ve already survived so much, Bruce. You’re already so strong, imagine what you could do if you were stronger. All you need to do is accept who you are.” Jeremiah presses a kiss to his forehead. “And you will, sooner or later, because I will never give up on you.”

And Bruce believes that, if nothing else.

The day continues on, and he feels strangely disconnected from his body as he moves through the hallways, a prisoner in his own home. Jeremiah’s nearly continuous presence brings forth a pervasive feeling of melancholia. His thoughts feel full of static. Connections cutting in and out, and leaving nothing but a jumble that he can’t understand.

Jeremiah kisses him, and Bruce idly drags his hands down Jeremiah’s chest.

Something is there again, in the left inner pocket of his suit jacket. 

But what good would taking the detonator do? Gotham was about to be changed so wholly that it would never revert back to the way it had been. The bombs hidden away in Bruce’s home were nothing compared to that. 

Was there anything he could do to stop the fireworks?

(Maybe he should have taken a fire iron to Jeremiah’s head while he had the chance, even if it had ended with Jeremiah bleeding out from a fractured skull.)

Bruce clenches his eyes shut.

I will not kill, I will not kill, Iwillnotkill.

I almost loved him, I almost loved him, Ialmostlovedhim.

(Would he have been fine with killing Jeremiah if he hadn’t had feelings for him?)

He’s a wreck. 

Gotham is his, and he’s failing her.

“I’m not asking you to stop what you’re planning.” Because not even he’s worth that much. “But I want to know what clues you left. I want to know that you weren’t lying to me when you said they'd have a fighting chance.”

He wants to know if the people he’s been parted from really do have an opportunity to make it through the night unscathed.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Pessimism is difficult to leave behind when one is so accustomed to being let down,” Bruce quotes Jeremiah flatly. “Now tell me what I want to know. I’m already aware of what your desired ending is, so please don’t act as if it’s something that you wanted to keep a surprise.”

Jeremiah’s smile twitches, and Bruce knows that it’s because he’s trying to keep it from growing too wide.

“You’re aware?”

The tone of his voice is gratified, as if Bruce putting the pieces of the puzzle together is something that he should be happy about. Maybe he takes it as a sign of how well-matched they are, or as a sign that Bruce is finding the equal footing between them. It’s just another secret that he no longer needs to keep, another thing that he can share fully. 

“I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of the toxic chemicals contained in the fireworks raining down on Gotham and—” He takes in a shuddering breath, sure that he’s right but hoping to be proven wrong. “—killing everyone who are exposed to it.”

Jeremiah’s proud smile tells him everything that he needs to know.

“Very good, Bruce, I do so love when you pay attention enough to connect the dots. I suppose I could reward your wit.”

He spins a tale about hypnotizing members of the Chessman Gang from the Narrows, and the recent rediscovery of the Queen of the Narrows, and Rooks used as compass needles to lead the way to the ACE Chemicals plant where Tetch and Ecco were watching over production. He claims he could only be clearer about where the trouble was brewing if he’d drawn the GCPD a map and pinned it to the bodies left in the wake of last night’s show.

He mentions, as if offhandedly, how he’d hand-picked a few Chessman to film a reproduction of The Mark of Zorro, and how he’d slashed ‘Z’s on their chest in the make-shift studio mere hours before Bruce had fatefully stumbled back into his life.

“We were already in the editing process when I called Ecco to let her know that the project could be scrapped, and that she wouldn’t need to shoot Mister Pennyworth on sight if she happened to see him. It’s a shame, though. I looked quite dashing in the cape and mask.” Jeremiah stands a little taller. “Perhaps I’ll dress up as your childhood hero again sometime. But only on special occasions. Now then, are you satisfied with the clues that I deigned to leave behind?”

Jim and Lee are sure to reach the chemical plant, and they’ve survived Tetch and Ecco before.

And maybe…

Maybe Alfred will hear about the deaths, will hear about the odd wounds left behind, will make some kind of connection when he realizes the current date. If he were to accompany Jim and Lee on the off chance that doing so might lead him to Bruce, and they managed to catch Tetch off guard, perhaps Alfred could be made to remember the days that had been erased.

Bruce nods in assent, and Jeremiah curls an arm around his waist.

Distantly, in the very back of his mind, Bruce notices that the closeness has started to feel… Normal. Like a natural progression from how they had once been. If Jeremiah had never been changed, then maybe they would have reached this point without bargaining, or manipulation, or violence. Maybe they would have made it here and been genuinely happy while working side by side to improve their city.

If Jerome hadn’t had the last laugh, maybe what was between them could have been healthy.

Morning slips into afternoon, which slips into evening. Bruce wonders if Jim and Lee have made it to the chemical plant yet. Wonders if Alfred is with them. Wonders if—

Jeremiah’s radio crackles.

“Boss?”

Ecco’s voice is oddly apprehensive. A timid hope swells in Bruce’s chest.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation out here.”

Jeremiah sighs and rolls his eyes, then presses a kiss to Bruce’s cheek before he leaves him alone in the study.

Bruce doesn’t follow him this time. Something wasn’t going according to plan, he could tell that much from Ecco’s tone, and that is enough for him. Instead he finds himself standing in front of the desk, gazing down at the plans for the maze that Jeremiah had yet to put away.

(Just like all of Jeremiah’s drawings and diagrams had been, they’re beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful.)

A muted noise from behind him causes his shoulders to tense. Nothing should be there except for the fireplace leading into the tunnel.

He turns and sees nothing.

Was his mind playing tricks on him?

No, there it was again, the distant sound of echoing footsteps. They seem to draw closer with each passing second. 

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat.

Had Alfred remembered? Had he come back for him?

(Could things go back to normal even though Bruce carried a rage in his chest like an undying flame, wanting to lash out at the people who’d turned their backs on his city when they needed help the most?)

It’s not Alfred who steps out from the passageway beyond the fireplace.

Selina stares at him in wide eyed alarm. Her eyes flit around the room, hurriedly comparing it to the years of memories that she has of this place, and when her eyes land on him again her eyebrows start to pinch together in the way they do when she’s trying to hide her concern.

“Bruce?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, we're so close to the enddddd. (Considering that this was originally a one-shot I don't think I've developed this further too badly, I hope, ffff.)
> 
> xoxo

Selina takes a wary step forward, staring at him with an intensity that Bruce doesn’t know how to react to. What he does know is that she’s looking at the bruising around his eye, and that his heart feels like it’s in his throat.

“What’s going on? How did—why does Jeremiah’s tunnel lead here?”

Jeremiah. If he came back and saw Selina here there would be no second chances. Bruce would have to watch her bleed out over his carpet again without any way of getting her to a hospital fast enough to help her. She would die, Bruce knows it, and Jeremiah will have made the anniversary of his parents’ death that much more terrible.

She has to go.

“Selina, you need to leave.”

“What? No way!” Her voice is starting to raise in confusion and anger, and maybe a hint of fear. Bruce darts forward, a finger pressed to his own lips to indicate the need for silence, and she narrows her eyes at him even as she lowers her voice. “This is the only way out of Gotham.”

“Selina.” He struggles to find a way to gently break it to her that Jeremiah is far from being six feet under while on a time constraint. “Sometimes people who die in Gotham don’t stay dead.”

Her fists clench, her knuckles turning white. “He’s gone. I killed him.”

“He’s here. Selina, you’ve got to go before he sees you.”

She opens her mouth, but the shuffling sound of more footsteps brings her to an abrupt halt.

Bruce watches as Oswald Cobblepot steps out from the fireplace, looking just as startled as Selina to find what lays at the end of Jeremiah’s tunnel, and Bruce needs them to get out, now, before Jeremiah comes back and rips them both to shreds.

His hands push on Selina’s shoulders, urging her to retreat. “Trust me, you need to leave, I don’t know how long he’ll be gone for, and I—” His eyes are tearing up as he thinks about the possibilities of what could happen if Jeremiah returned now. “—I can’t see him hurt you again. Please, Selina, go back and—and keep to the fringes of Gotham. Stay out of the populated areas, especially the Green Zone, keep away from the green fireworks.”

“Mister Wayne—”

Bruce doesn’t even spare Oswald a glance as he cuts him off. “We don’t have time. You both need to go.” He tries to turn Selina around, but her feet stay firmly planted.

She reaches out to run a shaking hand along the edge of Bruce’s black eye, and the look on her face breaks whatever is left of Bruce’s heart. 

“Come with me,” she demands. She doesn’t sound like she’s willing to take no for an answer.

Bruce wishes that he could. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I promised I’d stay.”

“He’s hurting you.”

“I hurt him back.”

Selina’s expression abruptly goes dark, and her hand drops away. 

“But he hurt you first. I’ve seen enough abusive relationships to—”

Bruce hugs her tightly and presses a kiss into her curly hair. Last night Jeremiah had tried to use Selina’s past actions against him, citing all of her perceived misdeeds as if she was on trial, but while he had been right about many things the most important was that Bruce had already forgiven her for everything. Selina’s arms hesitantly wrap around him, and Bruce takes a small amount of comfort in knowing with certainty that Selina is smart enough and strong enough to survive tonight.

(But could she survive whatever the mainland had in store for them?)

“Goodbye Selina. You’ve been a great friend. I love you.” He pulls away, and his hands raise to push at her shoulders again. This time she doesn’t resist. “Go. Remember what I told you. Stay safe.”

She throws a look over her shoulder at him, eyes glossy but expression unyielding as she and Oswald make their way back into the tunnel. She knows that he’s here, and she’s leaving now, but…

Selina might come back for him once the fireworks are over. 

Their footsteps sound too loud in Bruce’s ears, and while Selina can easily break into a run Oswald cannot, and his shuffling gait could give them both away if Jeremiah returns soon and comes to stand at the mouth of the tunnel. If he hears something and decides to investigate—

“Good help is so hard to find these days,” Jeremiah comments dryly as he opens the door to the study. Bruce spins around to face him and starts walking forward. “But never fear, everything is sorting itself out.” A smile blooms across his lips as he sees Bruce drawing closer, and he jokingly asks, “Miss me?”

Bruce fists his hands in the lapels of Jeremiah’s jacket and yanks him down into a kiss.

It’s the first one that he’s initiated.

Jeremiah freezes for all of a second. Then he melts.

He sighs against Bruce and throws his arms over Bruce’s shoulders, leaning his weight forward as if he can’t fully support himself. Bruce tilts his head and runs his tongue against the seam of Jeremiah’s lips, and Jeremiah shudders before he parts them.

It almost seems like too much to hope that Jeremiah will remain completely unaware of the presence of someone other than he and Bruce in the house. What if he’d been right outside the door while Bruce had been talking to Selina? What if he’d heard voices on his way back from wherever he’d gone to speak with Ecco? What if he just knew, like some unnatural predator, that someone else had set foot in his territory?

What if he was feigning ignorance to lure Bruce into a false sense of security?

Bruce’s hands start trailing down, undoing the buttons to Jeremiah’s jacket.

It might be paranoid of him, but he could never be too careful with Jeremiah. He had to be prepared for all possibilities, especially the possibility of Jeremiah knowing all that Bruce wanted him to be oblivious to. 

Jeremiah’s tongue brushes against his own, and Bruce doesn’t have to fake the noise that spills out of his mouth. He parts Jeremiah’s jacket, quick fingers darting to his inner pocket before moving to push the fabric from his shoulders.

Was he going too fast? Would Jeremiah be suspicious if he kept up like this?

Maybe. But he seemed preoccupied with following Bruce’s wordless prompting right now, letting his jacket fall to the floor without a fuss. 

Bruce slips the detonator into the back pocket of his jeans, already knowing that that’s a terrible place to try and hide it. He needs to drop it off somewhere before Jeremiah’s hands start wandering.

He starts pushing Jeremiah back, until he’s pinned against the desk.

Bruce slips the detonator underneath one of the diagrams and fervently hopes that Jeremiah doesn’t notice. He pulls back slightly, and Jeremiah gazes at him with heavily lidded eyes.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he drawls, satisfaction oozing from every pore, “but what brought this on?”

“Yesterday we hurt each other,” Bruce offers, somewhat breathless, and his hand gently rests overtop of Jeremiah’s multiple stab wounds, barely grazing against the skin through his dress shirt and stupidly, genuinely worried that he’ll cause more bleeding. “I don’t want us to hurt each other again, I want—” He cuts himself off, feeling blood rush to his cheeks.

The purpose of what he’s saying should be purely to manipulate Jeremiah the way that Jeremiah manipulates him. There should be absolutely no truth in his words.

But there is. 

(He could have loved Jeremiah, once. He doesn’t love him now but there is… Something unspeakable between them all the same.)

Jeremiah makes a low, inquisitive noise as he skims his hands up underneath Bruce’s sweater, his palms dragging a firm line up Bruce’s spine. Bruce can practically feel the power slipping out of his hands already now that the element of surprise has been used up.

“What is it that you want, Bruce? Tell me.” Jeremiah’s eyes drift over his face, looking for any weakness to exploit. 

“I want us to—I’m not ready for everything—but I want us to make each other feel good. I’m tired of being hurt, I’m tired of hurting you,” he says in a rush. “Can’t we have something good between us?”

Jeremiah hums, and he leans forward to whisper in Bruce’s ear.

“I can feel you trembling. There’s no need to be anxious.”

The detonator is not even a foot away. Why would Jeremiah still carry it with him if he wasn’t planning on using it eventually? Bruce still doesn’t know how many bombs Jeremiah’s hidden away in his house. He doesn’t know if them going off would cause a chain reaction culminating in the tunnel, the one open link to Gotham, caving in. Jeremiah’s jacket lays rumpled on the floor behind them, and once he puts it back on he’ll eventually realize what’s missing. Bruce has no way of knowing how far in the tunnel Selina and Oswald are. He has no way of knowing if Jeremiah knows that Selina was here, and asked Bruce to leave with her. Jeremiah is looking at him like he’d burn the whole world down if Bruce asked him to. 

He has every right to be anxious.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Bruce steadies his hands and brings them up to undo the top button of Jeremiah’s dress shirt, then the next. “Is everything between us meant to be unhealthy?”

“No.” Jeremiah’s eyes glimmer as they track Bruce’s hands. “It’s simply meant to be.”

Bruce’s retort dies on his tongue when he catches sight of the stab wounds.

“Fuck,” he hisses without thought, “how did you even survive this?”

He’d assumed that Jeremiah had been wearing at least some small form of protection but the ugly, jagged wounds, stitched haphazardly together, had obviously been made without anything to stop the path of the knife that left them behind. There’s a huge, fresh bruise spreading across the already painful looking skin, some of the stiches had obviously snapped and there are fresh scabs left in their place, and Bruce feels sick from looking at it.

He’d done that. He’d done it on purpose.

He’d been happy to do it.

(And still, somewhere inside of him, he believes that Jeremiah had deserved the full brunt of his brutality. He’d hurt Bruce, hurt Gotham, too much to get off scot-free.)

“As if a few measly stab wounds could stop me from carrying out my purpose.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when punched.”

Bruce flinches and makes to pull away, but Jeremiah’s hands stop him.

“There there, it’s all water under the bridge, is it not? I gave as good as I got.” He rests a hand against Bruce’s cheek. “I’m not interested in revisiting our past quarrels. I like your proposal much better, to, what was it again? Make each other feel good?” Jeremiah leans into his space and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “Yes. That is a much more appealing topic to focus our attentions on.”

Bruce’s mind whirls, and his heart beats unsteadily in his chest.

He wants—

He shouldn’t want.

The detonator is within arm’s reach. The tunnel might collapse if the bombs go off. Even if Bruce keeps Jeremiah distracted he’s going to realize that the detonator isn’t in its designated spot sooner or later. Selina is smart enough to follow Bruce’s advice for now, but Oswald is a wild card who has a strange history with James Gordon. What if he goes to the GCPD and tells them what lay at the end of Jeremiah’s tunnel?

What if there were multiple people in the tunnel, on their way to slay a monster once and for all, and the bombs went off?

The remnants of the GCPD, Selina, _Alfred_ —

Bruce tries to control his breathing. He uses the techniques taught to him when he’d been taken from home and he almost wants to laugh at the irony of it. He leans to rest his forehead against Jeremiah’s shoulder.

“What would you have done if I’d left?”

Jeremiah goes still, the question apparently enough to momentarily throw him for a loop. “Left? After we made our deal? Bruce, you are far too principled for that, and far too aware of what the consequences could have been.”

“No, not after coming here.” Bruce rests a hand against Jeremiah’s chest, fighting the urge to look back down at the terrible mutilation of flesh. “During the evacuation. What would you have done?”

“You didn’t leave, and I knew you wouldn’t,” Jeremiah tells him with an all-knowing ease. One of his hands comes up to play with Bruce’s hair, the other wraps possessively around his waist. “There’s no need to plan for something that would never happen.”

“What if it wasn’t my decision? What if I had been forced to leave on one of the ferries?”

At that Jeremiah lifts his head up to stare directly in his eyes.

“I would have never let you go. You should know that well enough by now, my dearest.”

He’s avoiding the question.

Maybe…

An idea begins seeping into his mind.

He kisses Jeremiah. It’s soft and sweet, and everything he would have wanted for them if they could have dodged the bullets of fate and remained normal. They’ve both been forced in directions they wouldn’t have chosen for themselves, and while Bruce can never forgive Jeremiah for what he has done… He’d also never forgiven himself for what he’d done to Alfred.

(Just like he’ll never forgive the mainland for all that they had done, and all that they had not done.)

He thought, once, that they were like two sides of the same coin.

Maybe they still are, but in an entirely different way than Bruce had originally expected. 

He sucks Jeremiah’s bottom lip between his teeth and tries not to let himself think any more of what could have been. There’s no turning back.

He knows what he has to do.

(Another plan is brewing in the back of his mind, it’s somewhat vindictive and… Extremely gratifying.)

“Do we still have some time before the fireworks?”

“Perhaps another hour, why?” Jeremiah lowers his voice. “Are you thinking about what we could get up to together in the meantime?” His hands drift down, clasping Bruce’s ass as he rolls his hips forward. “Because I do have some ideas that I wouldn’t mind sharing. I think you’ll like them.”

“Nothing too fast,” Bruce urges, feeling dizzy even before Jeremiah turns them around. Dizzier still when Jeremiah lifts him up to sit on the desk again and settles between his open legs.

“I can go slow for you, Bruce. I want to savor all of your sweet firsts after all.” Jeremiah’s hands start pulling at the hem of his sweater. “But fair is fair, tit for tat, and this shirt has to go.” He pulls it away, and slips off his gloves, and then his cool, callused hands are mapping out Bruce’s bared chest like he’s carefully planning where to leave his next mark. He moves to lay one hand over Bruce’s rapidly beating heart, his fingers brushing against Bruce’s nipple, and he jerks at the sensation. 

“Oh, precious thing,” Jeremiah coos. He pinches the nub between his forefinger and thumb. “The things I’m going to do to you. I’ll make you forget that anyone besides us exists.” 

It’s incredibly vain of him to say so.

But Bruce knows Jeremiah will try his damnedest to ensure it. 

Jeremiah leans down to replace his fingers with his mouth, and Bruce digs his hands in Jeremiah’s hair as the pressure of his teeth makes heat bloom inside of him. He’s not surprised that Jeremiah bites around the area hard enough to bruise, he’s not repelled by the sensation either, and when Jeremiah laves his tongue to soothe the ache before he pulls back Bruce feels as if an electric current runs down his spine. 

Jeremiah admires his handiwork, looking far too proud of himself, and Bruce pulls on his hair until he obligingly leans in with a smirk.

Bruce trails his lips along Jeremiah’s throat, and when he reaches the crook of his neck he digs his teeth into flesh and sucks.

A mark for a mark.

When he unclamps his jaw, Jeremiah presses his fingertips against the lingering imprint of Bruce’s teeth. The look on his face is… It’s a look Bruce had sometimes caught out of the corner of his eye when they were working together in the bunker. It was something that had made him feel special back then, and to be faced with it directly now makes even more warmth pool low in his belly.

He can’t get carried away, he has a job to do, he can’t let the possibly premeditated way that Jeremiah looks at him make him feel overly sentimental.

Bruce cups Jeremiah’s face in his hands and ignores his own desire to pull him in close again. 

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh?” Jeremiah cocks an eyebrow, and he looks Bruce up and down hungrily. “Is that so?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Bruce tells him, before carefully tacking on a deliberate, “darling.”

Every word Jeremiah’s spoken to him, every look he’s given, every action he’s taken, have all likely been calculated for the purposes of exploitation. He’s been using everything he can to turn every situation they’ve been in to his advantage. 

It was time for Bruce to start using his words, and looks, and actions to influence him right back. He would never be able to fully twist Jeremiah around his little finger, but with a bit of effort he could perhaps steer Jeremiah in a slightly different direction. Perhaps he could throw him off course by a few crucial degrees. 

Hurting Jeremiah never got him anywhere. It was time to try different tactics. 

(He thinks that Jeremiah would likely be proud of him for finally coming to this conclusion.)

If Jeremiah is surprised by the pet-name he doesn’t let it show in his expression. He does, however, lean a little more heavily into Bruce’s hands.

A beast who loves him that perhaps, despite all appearances and evidence to the contrary, is just as hungry for affection as he is for ruination. Who wants to be tied together by love or hate, though preferably by love, just as much as he wants the twisted ideas that he has about Bruce’s personal growth to come to fruition. 

Bruce leans their foreheads together, and his eyes fall shut.

A path has opened up before him, and he’s going to take it.

He doesn’t think he has any other options left.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he repeats. “It’s important.”

“More important than this?” Even without seeing his face, Bruce can tell that Jeremiah is smiling. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Bruce opens his eyes, purposefully seeking out the eye contact he’d so often wanted to avoid.

“You wanted to make this my new most important day, didn’t you?” He doesn’t actually need Jeremiah to answer such an obvious question. Of course that was how Jeremiah had viewed it. “You planned everything out to overwrite my old memories so that you could be at the center of them, so that you could be my origin point.” He leans back, and his tone softens. “My reason for being.”

Bruce’s hands drop from Jeremiah’s face so that he can intertwine their fingers.

“You’ve been keeping track of other people to keep track of me, you had Alfred tell you about my childhood so that you could know more about me, don’t you think that it’s time to get some of your information straight from the source instead of second-hand accounts? Or do you really think that you already know everything there is to know about me?”

“When you put it so succinctly it almost makes me think that you’re attempting to lure me into a trap.”

“And what kind of trap do you expect from me?”

“I’m not sure.” Jeremiah purses his lips together and regards him steadily. 

Jeremiah wants, so badly, to be sure of everything when it comes to Bruce. How else could he expect to change him? How else could he expect to develop and carry out a day that would have a greater impact than the day of his parents’ murder? How else could he bind them together forever?

His curiosity eventually seems to surpass his suspicion. “I am intrigued to find out what you might be attempting to instigate. And you did have ample opportunity to take one of those fire irons and lie in wait if you wanted to incapacitate me.”

Bruce carefully keeps his face neutral at that. It’s better if Jeremiah doesn’t know that they’ve had hauntingly similar thought processes.

Bruce leans in to press a kiss to the fresh bruise he’d left behind, murmuring, “It won’t take long.” He starts doing up the buttons of Jeremiah’s dress shirt, and he feels relieved when Jeremiah’s wound is covered.

Bruce could be vicious when he needed to be. 

And he can be practical, too.

He can’t know for sure if Jeremiah knows that someone has come through the tunnel, he can’t know for sure if Jeremiah is just waiting for the right moment to detonate his bombs so that, even if his fireworks fail, he can still be responsible for the deaths of the innumerable people who would be eager to ensure that he was dead once and for all.

What was the best way to keep Jeremiah from detonating the bombs at such a critical moment?

Simple.

(And maybe a little bit crazy.)

To detonate the bombs himself before anyone had the chance to start coming through.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, finally at the end, I'm pretty fond of it so I hope you guys are too.   
> I don't always have the energy to individually respond to comments, but ya'll have made my days a bit brighter. I love writing these guys so you'll likely see more from me... Eventually, lol. (My to-do list of things to write just keeps growing.)  
> Cheers.
> 
> xoxo

The air outside is warm, and there’s no breeze to speak of.

If no one is able to put a stop to Jeremiah’s plan before it begins and the fireworks do go off, then at the very least the chemicals won’t be spread around even further on the wind.

Bruce wants to believe that, at least in this one instance, good will triumph over evil. He wants so badly for that last little bit of hope to be kept alive and for this night to end with only one set of explosions.

And then, when he and Jeremiah are cut off from Gotham…

A thought has been lingering in Bruce’s mind. A whisper that he can hardly believe, but his instincts all scream to him that it’s true and that he has to accept it. He has to use it to his advantage, too. With a bit of cunning, and a dash of his own manipulation, he is going to steer Jeremiah in a different direction. He has to. He needs to.

He takes Jeremiah by the hand and leads him towards the garden. His free hand rests over the detonator, barely hidden in the front pocket of his jeans.

But he won’t need to keep it hidden for long.

(He wonders, briefly, what Alfred would think if he knew what Bruce was about to do.)

“You’re quiet,” Jeremiah comments, his fingers griping Bruce’s tightly. “What are you thinking about?”

“The future.”

He’s going to do everything that he can to protect his city.

From every threat that faces it.

(Even if that means he has to—)

“And what a future it will be,” Jeremiah sighs with abject longing before he yanks on Bruce’s hand, tugging him back against his chest. He wraps his other arm around him and rests his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. “What, precisely, is so important to you out here?”

Bruce exhales, forcing himself to relax.

He knows Jeremiah. Even now, he knows him.

Just as Jeremiah knows him.

He can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes him.

(Perhaps they really are well-matched. That, at least, will make his secondary objective that much easier. Jeremiah isn’t the only one who has influence in this twisted relationship.)

He flicks the switch.

A few minutes left before the show. Just enough time to raise the dreadful levels of anticipation. Jeremiah wouldn’t have blown up Wayne Manor in the same abrupt way that he had blown up the Clock Tower. He would have wanted Bruce to know, to agonize over it, to come to terms that there was no way to stop it. To have enough time to escape.

Because Jeremiah cannot kill him, just as he cannot kill Jeremiah.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Jeremiah comments, nuzzling his face deeper into Bruce’s neck. He sounds pleased. He sounds like he’s getting everything he wants.

But Bruce won’t let him have everything.

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t be?”

“Since you mention it I must admit that I was expecting a little more resistance. But I suppose…” Jeremiah takes their linked hands and lays them over Bruce’s heart. “That once we were fatefully reunited it was only a matter of time until you started accepting what we are to each other. Soulmates are such a fanciful, romantic notion, but darling, what other word exists that could possibly describe us?”

Bruce turns around, and before he lets his eyes rest on Jeremiah they linger over Wayne Manor.

Soon it will be gone. But he’ll have his memories. Jeremiah can’t take those away from him.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers.

Jeremiah snickers but obeys. He’s likely expecting that Bruce will try to attack him, expecting that Bruce will do his best to hurt him again despite what he’d said earlier. It would be so easy to hit him, to wrap his hands around that pale throat. But Bruce can’t play into Jeremiah’s hands anymore. He has to subvert Jeremiah’s expectations.

Instead, Bruce leans in to press a kiss to one corner of his smiling mouth, then the other.

And then he pointedly presses the detonator into one of Jeremiah’s hands.

He feels Jeremiah go taut.

He leans back, and Jeremiah is looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth parted as if to say something.

Bruce smiles.

He doesn’t think it comes across as a very nice smile, but then, Jeremiah didn’t want him to stay too-nice and too-good forever. 

They’re still close enough to the manor that the first explosion knocks them off their feet.

There’s another, and another, successive bursts of flame and smoke bringing down the home that Bruce grew up in. The pair of them watch the fire spread from where they’re sprawled on the ground, and then…

Jeremiah starts laughing.

“Oh! Oh Bruce, you perfect, wonderful, precious thing. Look at what you’ve done!”

Bruce glances at the destruction he’s wrought, but his focus turns back to Jeremiah quickly.

“You can’t use the bombs you planted against me or anyone else. Not anymore.”

He feels relief. Another tense knot inside of him unwinds.

“It’s more than that, Bruce, it’s so much more than that.” Jeremiah looks upon Bruce as if he’s some ethereal being. There’s fire reflected in his eyes and Bruce can’t bring himself to look away. “You severed the link into Gotham. It’s just the two of us, now,” Jeremiah says with fervor, the isolationist fantasies he’d had springing into reality by Bruce’s own hand. “And every object and article that holds memories before _me_ is gone because of you. You have used my creations to destroy and you—” Jeremiah’s burning gaze roves over him. “Have never looked more beautiful than now, in this moment, backlit by the flames of our combined efforts.” He reaches his hands out, a fevered yearning on his face.

Bruce flies forward, pushing Jeremiah roughly into the grass.

“My link to Gotham may be physically severed,” Bruce says as he pins Jeremiah to the ground, his hands clasping tightly around Jeremiah’s wrists. Jeremiah continues to stare up at him with such an open admiration that it almost makes Bruce feel like he’s the center of the universe. “But it’s still my home, even more than the manor was. I still carry it with me. And I won’t let you have it.”

Jeremiah’s expression starts to twist, and when he attempts to break out of his hold Bruce just pins him tighter.

“Gotham is mine,” he states. “Both her, and her people.”

“Well, in less than an hour _her people_ are going to fizzle out of their frankly pathetic existence, so you should resign yourself to the facts, darling.”

“I think not, darling.”

Bruce leans in, and Jeremiah goes still underneath him.

He feels as if the power is back in his hands.

“You keep telling me that I’ve been underestimating my worth. Maybe you’re right, maybe I have been thinking too lowly of myself. But do you want to know what else I think might be true?” He brings his mouth next to Jeremiah’s ear to whisper, “I think that you’ve been using that against me from the start. I think that you’ve been using my ignorance regarding my importance to you to further aid your manipulations and schemes.”

“Oh?”

Jeremiah sounds breathless.

If what he really wants is an equal he likely wants it in every way, including someone who can match him intellectually. Someone who can understand him. Someone who can figure him out. Jeremiah and Bruce have different scopes of intelligence, but there’s still plenty of overlap, and though Bruce does not know all the inner workings of Jeremiah’s mind, he knows enough.

Bruce moves back, and he looks down at Jeremiah’s glimmering eyes.

“There’s a reason why you didn’t answer my question about what you would have done if I’d left during the evacuation.”

“I did answer. Trust me Bruce, I would have done everything within my considerable power to keep you with me.”

“Exactly.”

Jeremiah’s lips purse, and his eyes narrow. 

“If I had gone, what choice would you have had but to follow? I am the most important person in your life, Jeremiah. I am your most important goal. I am the culmination of all of your efforts. The city just wouldn’t be the same if I weren’t in it.”

Jeremiah silently gazes up at him, not attempting to deny it. 

“Gotham is mine,” he repeats, “mine to protect as I see fit. It is my city, and you can have any city but her.”

Once upon a time maybe Bruce’s heart was big enough to fit the whole world inside. He doesn’t think he’s that person anymore, but there will always be room for Gotham.

There is a chance that Jim and Lee have dealt with Jeremiah’s fireworks on their own. There is a chance that Gotham will survive this night without his attempts to help. There is even a chance that whatever Ecco had called Jeremiah about did not get resolved and Jeremiah has only been acting brazenly confident to keep Bruce here, with him.

Bruce doesn’t want to rely on chance. He wants certainty. 

He wants to keep Gotham alive. 

“Call off your plan.”

“Bruce, one does not simply call off an event such as this. This is all still a part of your awakening.” Jeremiah’s eyes briefly flit to look over Bruce’s shoulder, and he doesn’t bother trying to suppress his adoring smile. “You’re doing so well, darling, and we mustn’t leave it half finished.”

“Jeremiah.” His grip is so tight that he’s probably leaving bruises behind on Jeremiah’s wrists. “Call Ecco and call it off.”

“What will you give me?”

Jeremiah’s tone has a coy edge.

“Exactly what you want.”

Jeremiah licks his lips, and his eyelashes flutter. Bruce feels warm from more than just the fire at his back.

“And what is it you think that I want that I don’t already have?”

Bruce has, apparently, never looked more beautiful than backlit by the flames of their _combined efforts_. He’d anticipated that Jeremiah would want them to work in tandem. He’d believed that, even now, Jeremiah longed for the companionship and understanding of the one person, it seemed, who’d ever proven themselves that they were worthy of working _with_ him and not _for_ him. Jeremiah’s reaction to Bruce triggering the detonator has only given him further proof that he was right. 

And he needs to use that to his advantage.

“You want me as your partner in all things, Jeremiah.” Bruce finally lets go of Jeremiah’s wrists in favor of cupping his face in his hands. “And I can give that to you. There’s something that I want us to do. Something that will bind us together in exactly the way you want.” His thumb brushes against Jeremiah’s lower lip. “Something that will turn me into the Dark Knight that I am meant to be. I can’t do it alone, and you were right, we’re both at our best when we work together.”

They’re at their worst when they work together, too. Dangerous beyond measure. 

Jeremiah’s free hands skim over his own. Suspicion and conviction war on his face, but he makes no further move to break out of Bruce’s clutches, or to grab at one of the weapons that he must have on him.

The lure of what Bruce is offering is far too great.

“What is it?”

Bruce smiles again. His own plan is falling into place.

“Ever since you started reading those transcripts my anger has been eating me alive. That was your main strategy, wasn’t it? To foster the darkness inside of me so that it would eventually consume me? To make it apparent to me that it was only you who I could trust fully? You have done so much out of love for me, Jeremiah,” Bruce lets his voice soften, lets his eyes drift partially shut. Deceptively gentle even while lit by the raging inferno that he’s responsible for. “What’s one more action, in the grand scheme of things? Prove what I’m worth to you. Show me that I’m more important to you than Gotham. And afterwards.” He presses a kiss to Jeremiah’s forehead. “We’ll focus on what you’ve been pushing me towards.”

(There are others who have hurt Gotham too much to get off scot-free. They must undergo retribution, justice, _something_ for what they have done.)

He can’t direct his rage at the entirety of the mainland. He can’t even direct it at every corrupt leader who’d left Gotham to crumble in on itself. But he does have one specific target in mind to start with.

Pushing Jeremiah in a new direction, just a few crucial degrees off course. Pointing him at an objective that Bruce feels nothing but detest for. 

“You and I are going to find Secretary Walker,” Bruce tells him. “You and I are going to make her regret all that she’s ever done to my city.”

Jeremiah’s eyes spark with a sinful humor. 

Bruce has him right where he wants him.

(Jeremiah has him right where he wants him: on the brink of a partnership that he’ll never be able to fully leave behind. Bruce is toeing the edge of something that is almost enough to take his breath away. He loves his city enough that he’ll take the plunge. And as for what comes after this trial by fire…)

Bruce intertwines their fingers and leans down, his forehead brushing against Jeremiah’s.

(He thinks he may end up stronger than even Jeremiah expects.)

“Soulmates should have shared goals, should they not?” His voice drops to a whisper that’s just as calculated as his use of the term that Jeremiah applied to them. 

“That they should,” Jeremiah says agreeably. “I suppose I can let you have your way, just this once.” Jeremiah finally flips them over, and he sits astride Bruce’s hips and looks down at him with all of the mad love that he possesses. “But Gotham isn’t only yours, Bruce, it is ours.” He untangles their fingers of one hand so that he can tuck a strand of hair behind Bruce’s ear. “We won’t leave her without us for long.”

“No.” He supposes that really would be too much to ask for, from either of them. But time with Jeremiah spent away from Gotham’s heart is time where Gotham can start healing from the damage he has left behind. “We won’t.”

Jeremiah smiles and takes out his radio. The red light of the blaze lends his complexion a wicked sort of warmth.

Just like his plans he is terrible, but beautiful.

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat.

“Ecco,” Jeremiah drawls, and Bruce can hardly hear Ecco’s response through the static in his ears. But she does respond. Jeremiah is actually calling her. “The plan’s off. I’ve had enough detonations for one night.”

Bruce has no doubt that Jeremiah will have more schemes in Gotham’s future, but for tonight he’s satisfied with the actions Bruce has taken. He’s satisfied with Bruce’s progress.

Bruce has taken another step towards what feels like an inevitable future, and he’s being rewarded for it.

“You may not see me for a while,” Jeremiah continues, voice casual even though the fire in his eyes outshines the one burning behind him, outshines even the one smoldering in Bruce’s chest. “Bruce and I are progressing into the, ah,” he chuckles lowly, “honeymoon phase of our relationship. Don’t run too wild while I’m gone. I’ll keep in touch.” He sets the radio down beside them and he presses his palms against Bruce’s shoulders, leaning his weight on them.

Bruce could easily free himself from the hold. He doesn’t. Here, in this moment, is his origin point.

And they have things to do. Together.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah whispers his name as if it’s a sacred designation. “My best friend, my equal, my partner; have I made you happy?”

“Yes.”

Jeremiah wanted him to be happy, just as he wanted Bruce to be his in all ways that mattered. Bruce may have started changing, just as Jeremiah wanted, but that doesn’t mean that Jeremiah’s kept all of his power. Bruce is at long last finding the equal footing between them, and he will take advantage of every foothold. 

Jeremiah’s eyes spark with something like joy before he leans down to press their lips together. Bruce kisses back.

It feels like the start of something astounding.


End file.
